


Fate/Orchid Labyrinth

by Rambling_Chantrix



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fighting Baseball
Genre: American Politics, Angst, Betrayal, British Politics, Casual Sex, College, Cunnilingus, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Modern Era, Murder, Nazis, Orchids, Original Character(s), Philosophy, Romantic Friendship, Socialism, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tragedy, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-10-08 12:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 38
Words: 77,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rambling_Chantrix/pseuds/Rambling_Chantrix
Summary: Jerry Cormic, a charismatic professor, collaborates with the Thule Society to replicate the Greater Grail System in downtown Manhattan. His seven proteges summon Servants, and a new Holy Grail War begins! Little is as it seems. Death, despair, and betrayal headline a series of disasters, and friendship is tested as Servants and ideals clash in Jerry's labyrinth.Cast is mostly OCs; systems are well-researched Fate with a twist. Character names "inspired by" Fighting Baseball. Enjoy!





	1. 01 - A Seed, to bear Death

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING - This fic does not contain any rapists raping. But there is a lot of mind-altering magecraft, so I've applied the rape/non-con label as a precaution for squicky situations.

Professor Jerome Cormic looked down over Greene Street, watching the steady pedestrian traffic. In his right hand, his cellphone: an unsent text, "meet me in my office at 4 p.m." His thumb hovered by the send button, not a millimeter closer or further than it had been for half an hour. Jerome was perfectly still, but he trembled inside. Today was going to be his best day.

He had prepared everything. The items lay on the white tablecloth draped over his usually messy desk. The diagrams were drawn in chalk and pig's blood all over his floor and walls. He knew his script by heart. And then there was the other thing he'd prepared, the most important of all: the students. They would come at four, even if he sent the text now, at 2:47; they would come willingly, enthusiastically, to participate in the greatest manaetic experiment the East Coast had ever seen. They would come joking about class, or some self-important professor. They would come arm in arm or hand in hand, best friends, lovers, giddy thralls to Jerry's arts. They would come because he owned them, heart, mind, and body. They weren't his first batch: they were his last. They were perfect. 

Lined up before Jerry on the windowsill were their orchids, seven vigorous specimens, none more or less beautiful than the others. The plants practically hummed with mana. He could hear their song without looking at them. Orchids had served as the foci of every one of his experiments, and their constant Croon was his favorite background noise. No more orchids, he realized, glancing down at his phone. This is the last crop.

2:48.

He pressed Send and sat down behind his desk. He had come so far, put in so much work, and suddenly he wondered what he would do tomorrow. The ritual would be complete, the experiment a sure success. He would be free—contractually free, truly free—the world his oyster. He wouldn't need a job. He could quit the English Department and just go somewhere. Read, write, follow his original passions. He would live out his final decades blessed, not hashtag blessed, blessed in the truest sense of the word. He was trading his orchids in for the Holy Grail.

Would life become boring, he wondered, when he no longer had to use charm and subtle arts to dominate the minds of twenty-year-old lit undergrads? A shuffling existentialism crept ever closer.

No.

He centered himself, floating on his back in the orchidsong, eyes closed to everything but the pool of mana inside him. It rippled mildly, stirred by only the slightest of concerns. What if the experiment fails? So much rode on this. He wouldn't get another chance, he'd been assured. The Grail wouldn't wait, and if he didn't seize it the Church would. Without the Grail he was useless to his sponsors, and while they hadn't put it so plainly, he was fairly sure they would kill him the moment he ceased to be anything but a liability to them.

Jerry didn't push these thoughts away. He allowed them to breathe on the surface of his mana. He gave them space, time, attention. It's okay. It's okay to worry. But it's also okay not to worry, he reminded himself. It's okay to have some confidence. The kids were perfect. The diagrams were immaculate. The items were of guaranteed quality and authenticity—if something went wrong on that front, his sponsors could only blame themselves. Jerry exhaled deeply as the surface of his mana slowly stilled, becoming a mirror pond reflecting his soul. He peered into it and the minotaur peered back. They smiled at each other, and for a moment Jerry remembered that he was a complete lunatic. Hallucination after hallucination slowly built themselves into a cohesive narrative of a gifted man with a quest. Starting in his own early twenties he had reconciled break after break with common knowledge about the nature of an ever decaying real world, eventually developing his own hypotheses about the nature of magic. Students in his dozens of failed experiments had challenged him on his premises. One of them had even broken into his mind and confronted the minotaur. After his arrest he learned that despite being a lunatic, he wasn't all wrong. His captors had done their best to avoid teaching him, but he had still picked up on a few things here and there. What he had known as the Six Arts of Alters were just one subdivision of magecraft. Magi existed, in secret, with their own organizations and societies. He and the couple accidental wizards he'd encountered in his experiments were far from the only ones keeping ancient arts alive. This knowledge alone had made his imprisonment bearable. In his cell deep beneath the British Museum he had reframed his theses. Each of his experiments since his escape eclipsed the previous. His understanding of magic deepened daily, until today. Jerry stood abruptly but without head rush. He felt incredible.

His phone still in his hand, he speed-dialed Hubert without looking. He gazed at his desk as he brought the phone to his ear.

"How's it looking, Jerry?"

"They'll be here in an hour. I've prepared everything, and I know all the chants by heart. We'll have the Grail tonight."

"Very good. You should be proud of yourself, Jerry."

"I couldn't have done it without your assistance. You and yours have been a delight." Jerry winced slightly at his own politeness. He was grateful for his freedom, and for his chance at the Grail, but Hubert was a Nazi, and Jerry always felt weird about that.

"Thank you," said Hubert. "We do strive for greatness. Now listen, Jerry—do you think you have time to do one more thing for us? It's not crucial to the success of the ritual, but I think it will improve our odds."

"Fuck," said Jerry, then, "shit, sorry. I mean, yes, of course, but Hubert, I don't know about these curveballs! Why didn't we plan for this?"

"Sorry, Jerry, the blame's all on us for this one. Again, it's not crucial, but hey it's coming down from above you know? A new suggestion from the order. A new order, hah. Listen, it's not an order, but again: can you do a thing for us?"

"What is it?"

"Write down the chants on paper, preferably in red ink—teachers have that, right?—one chant per page, and put the pages next to the appropriate relic. Call me back when that's done."

Jerry frowned. "Wasn't I going to tell them the chants?"

"Waters is worried you might trigger the ritual prematurely if you do that. Listen, it's just a precaution, but can you do this?"

"Yeah, yes, of course. I'll call you right back."

Jerry hung up, pulled seven pieces of paper out of his printer's tray, and began writing down the chants. They were each twelve lines long, and within ten minutes he had arranged the pages on the desk as instructed.

"Hubert?"

"Cheers Jerry! Is it done?"

"Yes. It's all written out, and the kids should be here soon."

"Great. You've been a great asset, Jerry. Our buddies in the Clock Tower did a good job. I want you to know this, Jerry. I want you to understand. You are a great man. You have accomplished a lot, and you're about to top it all."

"Thanks, Hubert."

"Have you thought about what you're going to ask of the Grail?"

"Of course," Jerry laughed.

"Well, what is it?"

"I don't have to keep it secret for it to come true?"

Hubert laughed in turn. "No, Jerry, this isn't a birthday candle. It's the Holy Grail! Come on, we didn't get this far on superstition alone. We're talking miracles. What's yours?"

Jerry hesitated a moment, suddenly embarrassed. "I want to write the Great American Novel, Hubert."

"Hey, that's nice." Hubert's voice was warm, comforting. Jerry didn't like being comforted by Nazis. "Listen, it's going to happen, okay? The ritual's at four, it might take half an hour? And then as we say in the order, blip bammo, Grail, wish, miracle, you're _the_ author."

"Thanks, Hubert."

"There's just one more thing we need to do. One more curveball, for me, not you." Hubert chuckled. "You don't need to do anything else, Jerry. It's all on me. Before the Grail can really kick things into gear it needs one more big burst of mana."

"Okaay," said Jerry. "But you've got it covered?"

"Yeah. I know just the thing. Here, look out your window." Jerry looked down at the street, trying to find something noteworthy in the flow of walkers. "No, no, straight across. See me?" Jerry looked up and saw Hubert standing on the roof of the Waverly Building, phone to ear in one hand, waving with the other. His blonde Hitler Youth hairdo flapped lazily in the late November breeze. Jerry waved back, slowly, befuddled. Hubert stopped waving and pointed straight at Jerry. "I think a minotaur should do the trick."

 

# # #

 

Onson Sweemey was first. 3:58. Jerry's office door was closed, as usual. (It keeps the mana in, he'd say.) Just as he was about to knock on the door, he heard the others arrive.

"Hey Sonion!" called Jass Bonzalez. Onson smiled at this nickname. It rhymed with Funyun, a quirky American thing.

"Wazzup Jass?"

Jass and Bobsom Dugnutt arrived hand in hand, readers tucked under opposite armpits. Rey McSriff, Anatoli Dustice, Raul Chamgerlain, and Karli Dandleton showed up right at four, the stragglers of the group, always cutting it close.

When Onson had first joined the group, the other six had seemed so similar to him: all _American_. Of course, they didn't see it that way, and neither did America. With time Onson had figured out that Jass being Latina meant something; that Raul's Algerian roots meant something. These Americans shared a dialect, mannerisms, cultural touchstones, but they weren't, as Onson had originally assumed, a homogeneous gang. He'd made his share of faux-pas, mostly responded to with generosity for the sweet, clueless foreigner, but he had made an effort to learn. Three months into his semester abroad, he was still learning, and it was much easier with these peers than with most of his classmates. Jerry's students were always the friendliest, the brightest. 

"Today's the day!" Raul beamed.

"Jerry's going to be so happy," said Karli. "I hope it's a smashing success."

"How could it not be?"

"Well, we could dawdle out here and ruin the timing." Rey laughed as she spoke, and Raul grabbed the doorknob.

The seven students looked at each other, exchanging gazes and smiles. Then in unison they nodded, and Raul opened the door.

Onson was the last to enter the room. His fellows had fanned out along either side of the door, not daring to step forward. The floor was covered in red and white diagrams, geometric shapes, strange glyphs. Jerry's desk was draped in a white tablecloth. Upon that rested seven sheets of paper, each next to a small object: a gilded string, an arrowhead, a dagger, a glass slipper, a pottery fragment, a wilted flower, and a nail. Splashed across the northeast-facing window in messy, red letters, were the words: "Line up by orchid, face your relic, speak the words."

Jerry was nowhere in sight.

"Guys?" Onson looked back to his fellows. They were already at Jerry's desk, standing in order: Jass, Bobsom, Anatoli, Rey, Raul, Karli. Between Raul and Karli was a gap. The wilted flower was Onson's. "Guys, isn't this a bit much?"

Jass looked back at him. "Maybe Jerry can't be in the room for the ritual. We should continue without him."

"I think these diagrams are drawn in blood," said Onson.

"Use the Grail to clean it up, if you care." Raul laughed, then went back to studying the page in his hands.

Onson looked from left to right, Jass to Karli. Was he the only one who had doubts about the scene they were encountering? Was it a Swedish thing, this reluctance? The Americans were gung-ho. Today was the big day, the culmination of decades of research for Jerry. A chance to do something truly extraordinary. They were going to attain the Holy Grail of legend, vessel of miracles. Onson had barely slept the night before, had been a bit weak in the knees climbing up to Jerry's office. We're all excited, he thought. But Jerry is supposed to be here.

"I feel really weird about this."

"Come onnn, Sonion," pleaded Jass, turning to pout at him. "Come look your poem over. I think we're supposed to all do this together. Don't ruin this for Jerry."

Onson stared at Jass for a good twenty seconds before he managed to make a decision. "Fuck it. Let's get that Grail. For Jerry!"

"For Jerry!" the other students cheered.

Onson took his place between Raul and Karli. He looked down at the wilted flower, tiny against the white tablecloth. In front of it was the sheet of paper, with twelve lines written in red ink.

 

_A Seed, to bear Death_  
_Antidote of the 9 Quadrants_  
_A heart, to pump poison throughout_  
_Your garden gate crumbles_  
_I hereby propose_  
_Your Will mine, and I your Sword_  
_Answer if you abide the Grail's Summons and Laws_  
_I hereby swear_  
_I shall define Good_  
_I shall unmake Evil_  
_From the Tree of Thal, Altered by nothing,  
_ _Step forth, Ascendant!_

 

"Shall we do this?" asked Bobsom. He waved his page eagerly.

"I don't understand mine," said Onson.

"What's there to understand?" asked Karli. She gazed at the nail on desk, her paper crumpled and discarded. "Jerry prepared this. We just say the words."

"I think I understand mine," said Bobsom. "This is a summoning spell. I bet my chant will make a little green dude show up."

"A little green dude?" giggled Jass. "What is this, King's Cup?"

Anatoli had remained silent, and he now looked over at Onson. "I wouldn't say I'm like, 100% on this to be honest. What if something happens to us? To the department? What if something already happened to Jerry?"

"What could happen?" asked Raul. "This is Jerry we're talking about."

"Come on," said Anatoli. "You read books. This isn't an uncommon theme. We mess with some higher power, maybe there's a reward, maybe there's a price. I'm with Onson."

"No," said Onson. "Let's fucking do this." He knew Americans loved how it sounded when he said "fucking," and it embarrassed him a little, but he needed to pump himself up. "It's time sensitive and we're almost five minutes behind schedule. We all signed up for this, right? Our favorite professor is a loony wizard and we love him. I'm starting in three."

"Two," said everyone in unison, except Anatoli, whose expression darkened.

After a meaningful look around the room, he joined in for "one."

Onson read his chant aloud. Karli recited hers, as did Jass and Raul. Bobsom, Anatoli, and Rey read from the page, except Rey who clearly went off script: she added a thirteenth line, "I've been waiting for you to take me away." Before Onson could give that addition too much thought, the diagrams on the floor and walls began glowing. The message written on the window seemed to float off the glass, swirling into a red cloud in the center of the room. Then it parsed itself into seven smaller eddies, and flew in seven directions, landing on the back of the right hand of each student. Onson looked down and saw a red crest on his hand, three flowers arranged to make a skull shape.

As soon as he had registered this, near-blinding light and a fierce wind gripped the closed room, blurring lines, mangling the curtains, somehow not touching the orchids. Onson was steady, puzzling at this powerful force that did not even try to move him. His fellows remained on their feet as well.

Then a massive thud shook the floor and the light receded.

In the middle of various circles drawn on the floor were seven strangers, each bathed in a faint blue light. A slight, tunicked man with a jeweled crown in his green hair stood near Jass, a shepherd's crook in one hand. Nearest Bobsom, a stout white man dressed in green stood with a jaunty feather in his hat. A red-haired, pale skinned woman dressed like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean stood by Anatoli. A tall figure in an immaculate white suit stood by Rey's elbow, all features beside dress and height indiscernible. At Raul's feet, a dirty man in rags crouched like a dog. A woman with dark green skin and purple hair squatted next to Onson, clad in ancient Indian garb. On Karli's other side stood—Jesus? Swarthy, bearded, clad in his iconic white robe and red sash.

Onson was still busy taking in the scene when the seven newcomers spoke in unison.

"Your summons have been answered. I am—"

The seven stopped, glancing around the room, at the students, the relics, each other.

The green-skinned woman stood straight in a flash and locked eyes with Onson.

"Are you my master?"

Onson Sweemey could have said no. At least, he thought it was an option. This was a yes or no question. These things weren't always clear. English was barely a second language to him, but he hadn't been in America long, and he got it wrong sometimes. Still, he was sure there was no cultural barrier here. The question was simple. Yes or no. He could say yes—he could say no. He had no other option. The tone of the question was clear as his options: he had to decide fast. There was no time for hesitation. He didn't have much to go on, either. But Jerry hadn't mentioned summoning green people or Jesus. Onson knew in that instant that this experiment had gone off the rails.

Something horrible had happened to Jerry, and something horrible could happen to him.

He needed protection.

"Yes," he said simply, and the woman nodded. Around the room, Onson heard a chorus of yesses.

Then in a flurry, the seven new arrivals were pulling their new "masters" aside, pushing them into corners, blocking them from each other with their bodies. All seven, except Onson's green woman, who had vanished.

He stood in the center of the room, at a loss. The pirate was waving a boarding axe, the dirty man a stick; Jesus was chanting something under his breath, and the guy in green, now obviously some kind of reject Robin Hood, was knocking an arrow to a bow.

"Guys?" asked Onson, his voice cracking as fear gripped him.

And then Bobsom gargled and fell over, dead eyes open, purple bile bubbling from his mouth.

Onson stared in a daze at Bobsom's body as the walls of the office blew to pieces and his friends were whisked away in the arms of the things they'd summoned. As quickly as the ritual had started it was over. Jerry's office looked like it had been bombed. Bobsom lay rigid among the rubble. The hand that had held Jass's fifteen minutes earlier had frozen around his own neck. The nails were already flaking away from his darkening mauve skin. Panicked shouts rang down the hall, and sirens wailed a couple blocks away. Onson couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend, but his vision was weird, part blurry, part jelly, jittery. He was sure he was having a stroke.

"My name is Visha Kanya, Living Death, Servant of the Assassin class," said the green woman, rematerializing in front of Onson. "I will win the Grail for you, but I cannot keep you safe. We will find you a hiding spot, to emerge from when the war is over. Come, before our enemies return."

Onson's vision was clearing up slowly, but he needed to puke. He put a hand out to support himself on Assassin's shoulder, but she backed away and he fell face first into the growing puddle of his vomit.

"Don't touch me, Master."

These were the last words Onson heard before the room spun and his vision departed again, hiding behind the heavy shroud of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an entirely new story couched in the world and mechanics of Fate, but with relatively few Fate characters. Seven friends become enemy Masters in an unorthodox Grail War. I'm trying to write this so that it is at least mildly cogent to folks who aren't fans of Fate, but I hope that it will especially please in its presentation as fanfic :)
> 
> First draft; all feedback welcome.


	2. In the Labyrinth :: A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week before the ritual, Jerry's proteges enjoy a break in his office.

In the Labyrinth

A

November 20

 

 

Sunlight filtered through Jerry's half-closed shades, casting a soft light on the orchids. Jerry's proteges sat scattered about the room. Rey was helping Onson through some Gary Snyder. Karli was drawing in a sketchbook, hunched over, earbuds in, concentration in her face as she worked. Anatoli held his Ruth Ozeki open with one hand, pinkie saving his place, as he peered over her shoulder, mouth open in a faint expression of wonder. Jass sat with her back to the desk, to Jerry, a chair on either side of her. She was looking down, contentment in her face. To her right, Bobsom was curled up on his side. He dozed with his face in her lap, drooling slightly. Raul's head leaned on her left shoulder.

A lull.

The students sat on brittle plastic folding chairs that afforded little in the way of comfort. They were crammed in the small room of a newer professor, some of their bodies contorted into weird positions. The room was cold, breezy. But they were cozy, warm and soft in each other's presence.

Jerry, sitting at his desk, hummed quietly, as he always did, in a low and almost imperceptible register. The orchids, lined up on the windowsill, shone faintly.

Raul stirred, sat up, stretched.

Jass's shoulder was cold, and the moment was over.

Anatoli stood and put his book in his backpack. Karli turned the page in her sketchbook, yawned, and stashed it. Rey clapped Onson on the back, then kissed him on the cheek. Jass scooped Bobsom's head into her hands, leaned over, and placed her lips on his. He responded with tongue, and the others watched. There was a brief swell in the room: Onson and Rey holding hands, Karli brushing something off her chest, Raul wrapping an arm around Anatoli's shoulders and rubbing his smooth cheek against the other boy's ear.

After the kiss, Bobsom rose slowly, sleepily.

It was time to go to class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying something new structurally. There'll be an "In the Labyrinth" between every chapter. They won't necessarily be in chronological order, but they'll be dated.


	3. 02 - The Death of Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jass and Onson—separately—make the acquaintance of their Servants, and are properly inducted into the Holy Grail War. A pure and beautiful friendship crumbles under the weight of Assassin's actions.

Jass lay despondent in the entryway to her tiny studio apartment.

The lithe, green-haired man who called her Master and could disappear and reappear at will sat crosslegged by her head. He fiddled idly with what looked like a small harp. Occasionally a string of notes improved her mood, but she hated herself for allowing her spirits to lift at all. She had run out of tears long before stumbling home and now she just felt dried out, a husk.

Bobsom was dead.

What the fuck? An hour earlier they'd been making out in the stairwell outside Jerry's office. Young, and in love. What the fuck.

"I would like to help you, Master." His voice was rich and sweet. "I know all the songs of Bethlehem, if any might ease your heart."

Jass didn't respond.

"I can bring you food and water."

_Go away._

"Do not forget that you are my Master."

Would this asshole not stop offering to help? Jass steeled herself, managed to utter: "Leave me alone."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," replied the man, voice suddenly stern. Jass blinked. "You are my Master, which means I need you to win the Grail. I can't leave you like this. We must discuss our respective skills and strategy. We must fortify your atelier. The others may come for you as things stand now. I sense no protective enchantments at this time."

"Protective enchantments?" she managed.

"Yes. As a magus, you must defend yourself better. I can protect you from enemies of whom we are aware, but even I can't stop a long range magical assault, nor could I reliably stop Assassin from entering these premises as things stand."

Jass propped herself up on her elbows and looked into the man's piercing green eyes.

"Do you not understand that you are in _danger_ , Master?"

Sure she did. The world was an overwhelmingly dangerous place. Her abuela had made that abundantly clear following her dad's disappearance in the sixth grade. Now Anatoli's words rang in her head, a grim carillon. "We mess with some higher power, maybe there's a reward, maybe there's a price." Yet she had been the one who convinced Onson to play along. If she had slowed her roll just a smidgeon—

"Master, it is not proper, but I am now considering methods of forcing you to listen to me. There is a time for patience and consideration, but this is a time for action."

Jass flopped back onto her side, arms extended in front of her. Three red sheep seemed to have been magically tattooed onto the back of her right hand. If only that hand hadn't held the summoning script.

"Can we go back?"

"How do you mean?"

"Can we undo the ritual."

"Master, do you not seek the Grail?"

"I wanted to make my professor happy. He wanted the Grail." Jass shivered as she tried to process her guilt.

"Is this professor one of the Masters?"

"No," she said, intuiting that the other Masters were her friends. Jerry's other prize students. "If what I am is a Master, and there's seven of us—"

"Six."

"Don't fucking remind me," she cried, and to her surprise she managed to burst into tears. "What—" she caught her breath— "what, what happened to him?" Blubbering she rolled over and looked back to her Servant. "What happened to Bobsom?"

"It is exceedingly likely that Assassin killed him. We did not stay long, as you know, but poison is probable. Few Servants employ such methods."

"Assassin?"

"The woman with green skin. Her Master is the fair-haired boy."

Onson.

Sweet Onson!

The skeptical one! Had it been a ploy? Was he trolling, even as he cast the spell that killed Bobsom? Her imagination filled in the gaps and slowly her guilt and sorrow were replaced with a roasting rage. Jass sprang to life, jumping to her feet and ransacking her kitchen.

"What are you looking for?"

"Knives," she answered, opening and slamming drawers. "I am going to kill that motherfucker."

"Don't bother," said the man with the miniature harp. "When you are ready to join battle, you shall need no blade but the Lord's." He stood and waved his instrument. It disappeared in a shower of golden sparks. "We can kill Assassin's Master with this, if it pleases you." His left hand disappeared behind his back, then reemerged holding a giant sickle sword, easily over four feet long, ridiculously large in the man's hand. Yet he held it like it weighed nothing.

"What is that thing?" asked Jass.

"The sword of Goliath the Philistine," replied the man. "As you are now ready to talk, perhaps it is time for a proper introduction. I am David son of Nitzevet and Jesse, King of Israel, Servant of the Saber Class. I am confident that in a straightforward confrontation, I can easily defeat any other Servant in this Holy Grail War. Now, tell me about yourself. What kind of magecraft do you use?" He waved his hand, and the giant sword was gone.

Jass just looked at him with her mouth open.

"You seem surprised, for a Master in this war."

"I... I suppose I am," she said slowly. " _The_ David?"

"Call me Saber. Our enemies must not learn my name. Tell me: what do you wish to know?"

Jass sighed and closed the knife drawer. She rubbed her temples and poured herself a glass of water. There was no going back. If this man was offering her information, she should take it.

"I guess everything," she said.

"That could take a while," said Saber. "Can you not put some defenses in place before we get into it?"

"I'm not a magus or whatever!"

For the first time, Saber seemed taken aback.

"I suppose that is possible," he said, "though unexpected and unfortunate. How did you come to summon me?"

"Again, this professor wanted it. We just followed his instructions."

"Do you mean to tell me that _none_ of the Masters are magi? And you all know each other?"

"We are close friends." A practiced line, a summary of something more complicated. Then she thought of Onson's boyish face, his hesitation. Bobsom turning purple on the floor. "Were."

Saber frowned, then his face lightened.

"I assume you do not want your close friends dead."

"Not all of them."

"Okay. That is honorable. We will focus on defeating Servants. If you and your friends coordinate, you can have them order their Servants to attack me head-on. I shall defeat them all and we will attain the Grail. No victory could be easier."

"Why can't we just share the Grail?" asked Jass. "Why is there a war?"

Saber shook his head sadly.

"The Grail does not work until no more than one Servant remains. We must defeat the other six and take it for ourselves. Take heart, Master: if you truly wish it, the Grail can restore your love."

Jass didn't say anything. If she could make one wish on the Holy Grail, will one miracle into existence, would it even be to revive one dead human? Her heart yelled at her as she considered the possibility that she wouldn't use her wish to save Bobsom. There were so many problems in the world. Hunger, thirst, imperialist war. The idea of a miracle seemed incomprehensibly grand. Could she not save millions? Billions?

She was still processing, but she could sense Saber's impatience, so she took action. Walking over to the edge of the kitchen counter, she reached behind the microwave, pulled out a thin black cable, and plugged in her cellphone.

"I'll talk to them," she said. "I'm sure my friends and I can agree on a wish. Then it won't matter which Servant wins. You guys can fight it out to your heart's content and we'll stay safe."

Saber laughed at that. Jass, assuming the laughter was mockery, felt her hairs raise, but then she saw the kind look on his face. He was unworried.

"Talk to them, please. But if you come up with any plan that doesn't involve me taking the Grail, you will be hard pressed to command me. At the conclusion of the war, one Servant and one Master—one pair—are granted their wishes. I shall have mine."

Jass stared at him, trying to see how serious he was.

"I'm sure there's still plenty I don't understand, but aren't you here at my pleasure?" She couldn't gauge his reaction. "Could I not send you back to wherever you come from, and be done with all this?"

"Do you not seek the Grail?"

"If my friends agree with me, then their wishes are mine. It doesn't matter who wins."

Saber shrugged.

"You know them better than I. If you are certain they share your wish, you have no reason to continue fighting. Luckily for you, I am above threatening you to stay in the war. But let me ask you this, Master: _are_ you certain they share your wish? And how safe do you think you are, even if you dismiss me?"

"What do you mean?"

"As we speak, any number of Servants may be preparing to kill you. Taking out the Master would seem the path of least resistance for the likes of Assassin or Caster. And you are not even a magus."

Jass considered this. She couldn't put it past Onson to come for her. She could text everyone that she was quitting, but would she believe it if she received such a text from Onson? It would seem a ploy. An hour earlier she couldn't have fathomed distrusting anyone from the group. She had said "close friends," but they were more than that. She also couldn't have fathomed Bobsom's sudden death, and that changed everything. She shook her head sadly, opened the group chat on her phone, and began typing.

"I'll keep you around for now," she said.

Saber nodded in her peripheral vision, then sat back down and began strumming again. Jass finished typing her brief message—"we need to talk"—and turned back to her Servant.

"What is that thing?" she asked.

Saber's eyes were closed. "It is a lyre," he said, "capable of lifting any spirit and driving off any evil."

Jass finished her glass of water and sighed deeply. This whole thing was fucked. Jerry had disappeared, Onson had turned evil, Bobsom was dead. A magical spirit that claimed to be King David was relaxing in her apartment, playing strange melodies on a stranger instrument. She had to figure out how to come to some kind of agreement with the others. No more fighting, no giant swords or magic circles. Fuck the Grail. She just wanted to forget the image of Bobsom's corpse, and to finish the reading for English 440.

Just as she was starting to feel hungry, finally, and actually considered doing something about it, Saber spoke up again.

"We still need a better safehouse for you."

 _Fuck_.

 

# # #

 

The voice sounded like it was coming over an old radio. Slowly, the static cleared and the words emerged.

"... at all, Captain. With these methods we can have a Holy Grail War every year, at least." Silence, waiting for a response. "Yeah, yeah, we got his notes. It's all here. We can begin preparations for the next one immediately."

Onson felt he was lying on something hard, long, flat, wooden. His left side was pressed up against another wooden slab.

"Okay, yes. But what should I do with this crop of kids? ... What?" A distant chuckle. "If you say so, Captain. Yes Ma'am, freedom from men and God."

A couple footsteps came from a few feet away.

"Sorry, kid, did I wake you?"

Onson forced his eyes open. The room was dark, illuminated only with what seemed to be candlelight. He lay on a wooden pew, in at least a short row of them, judging by the presence of another to his right. The ceiling above looked like worked rock, the floor below carpeted.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking up at a white-robed blonde man whose haircut could have placed him in an Eastern German village, marching against Merkel's refugee plans.

"First of all, you're safe. Sit up, let's talk."

The man's voice was friendly. He offered Onson a hand, but Onson didn't accept it, instead pushing himself up with a palm on the pew bench. Shrugging, the robed man stepped back and then leaned against the next pew.

"I'm guessing you don't know what you've gotten yourself into. Thankfully, I am the Church-appointed supervisor for this Holy Grail War. While you're in my sanctuary you are untouchable, and I can fill you in on all the details. Where shall I start?"

"The top, probably," said Onson, grimacing as he finished waking up and tasted the inside of his mouth.

"Alright. One thousand years ago, a family of magi known as the Einzberns uncovered one of the truest forms of magic, said to grant immortality by turning one's soul into a the magical equivalent of a perpetual motion machine. This art was never fully mastered, however, and—"

"How relevant is the backstory?" Onson interrupted.

"You said the top," the priest reminded him, frowning. "Anyway, to make a long story short, to this day, magi seek the power of this lost art—among others—, and the Holy Grail War is one method of accessing it. Now kid, do you prefer comforts or truths?"

"Truths."

"Your professor Jerry Cormic is dead. He was an idiot dabbler and got played by a secret society of British magi. They used the mana released by his death—magical energy, mana—as the final catalyst to start the Grail War, trapping you and your friends in a deadly game. You are Masters, and the magical beings you summoned are Servants, manifestations of the Grail's power. With me so far?"

"Yes." He wasn't really with it, but he could follow along if he pretended it was the back cover of a bad fantasy novel.

"Okay. To access the Grail's power, these manifestations must be destroyed, their mana fed back to the Grail. The last standing Master and Servant pair get to wish on the Grail, their desired miracles realized."

"Jerry said he was going to have his wish granted by the Grail."

"Jerry didn't know what he was getting into," said the priest. "Like I said, he got played. If he hoped for a shot at the Grail, he would have had to be chosen by it and summon a Servant of his own." The priest smiled sadly. "It's too bad for him, really. He could have wiped the floor with the rest of you, probably, since he was a magus and you kids aren't."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Onson. He vaguely knew that Jerry thought himself a wizard, but until now that hadn't meant much.

"For one thing," said the priest, standing straight and then walking over to a small altar, "the Grail provides the mana for the summoning of the Servants, but they are anchored in this world by their Masters. They need their Masters' mana to stick around long, especially if they get into combat. Magical energy is needed to maintain a Servant's physical form, to heal its injuries, to power its strongest attacks, and that typically comes from the Master."

"I can't do that, then," said Onson.

"Conveniently for you, it's a level playing field. None of your friends can. There are other ways to feed a Servant, especially if you can find a magus... have sex with them, or drink their blood, or eat their heart. Doubtless some of your friends are hunting for magi as we speak."

"Hunting for magi?" Onson asked. "How would you even find them? Aren't they rare?"

"They're not abundant, no," said the priest. "But a big city like this is bound to have at least a few thousand folks with magical circuits, whether or not they know how to use their powers."

"And you're telling me that my friends have jumped right into this, whole-heartedly, and are going to go around murdering people in order to power their Servants?" Onson could barely finish the question, the idea angered him so. His friends were angels.

"The Grail is on the line, kid. Their Servants want to win; they want to win. Don't you want to win? Your hands aren't clean."

"What have I done?" asked Onson. "I didn't do anything. I just passed out from shock."

The priest burst out laughing, a deep belly laugh.

"Kid, you got first blood." Onson's eyes widened. "I'm the supervisor; of course I see what happens. You all summoned your Servants in the same room, and your Assassin killed Archer's Master in a flash."

Assassin!

"That was her?" Onson asked, blanching. "Where is she?"

"I'm here, Master." The voice came as if she sat a foot away on the pew. Onson felt like he couldn't move away fast enough, jumping up and running backward into the aisle.

"Stay away," he yelled, trying to sound commanding but knowing that he sounded frightened.

"Fear not, Master, I won't harm you. I dematerialized to preserve our resources."

Onson backed away further.

"You, you killed Bobsom?"

"If that was the name of Archer's Master, yes." Assassin sounded proud. "My ability to defend you from attacks is close to zero, and I cannot win a fair fight against most Servants. I assessed that to best protect you in that moment, I should go on the offensive against the Master of the Servant most immediately threatening you."

Onson felt a cold fury build inside him.

"I didn't ask you to hurt anyone."

"You asked me to abide the summons and laws of the Grail. One down, five to go."

"Fuck!" yelled Onson, kicking the nearest pew, causing a magnificent pain to burst through his foot. "Fuck the Grail. I didn't want it, I wanted to make Jerry happy. Why are we dying? Why are we fighting?"

"For better or worse," interjected the priest, "you are a Master in the war now. Don't hate Assassin, who only did more efficiently what another Servant was slower to attempt."

"Is there no way out?" asked Onson.

"Normally, you could give your Command Seals to another magus willing to make a contract with your Servant." The priest pursed his lips. "But Jerry made some mistakes, and I'm afraid you're stuck with her until she loses or the war ends."

"Lose," said Onson simply.

"Excuse me, Master?"

"Go find another Servant and die. I'm done."

"I refuse," said Assassin.

"Aren't I your Master?"

"And my will, yours," came the voice. "Your words. We have a contract. I will obtain the Grail. Help me as little as you like, but I will not sabotage my own odds. And Master—" Suddenly the voice was coming from directly behind Onson, and he jumped forward, turning to see the green woman standing inches away. "—you _will_ keep my mana up. You will figure out a way. You may find I can be quite—" Her hands encircled his face, millimeters from his skin. "— _convincing._ "

"Don't scare him to death, Assassin," laughed the priest. "You won't get far without a Master."

"Tch."

Assassin vanished in a blue flash, and Onson reeled backward, falling on his butt.

"What should I do?"

"My advice?" asked the priest. "Win. Worst case scenario, you use the Grail to bring your friends back to life."

"It can do that?"

"It's the cup in which the blood of Jesus Christ was collected. It works miracles, kid."

Onson looked up at the crucifix on the altar. Wait. The likeness wasn't just uncanny.

"Jesus is one of the Servants."

The priest raised his eyebrows, poorly-feigned surprise.

"I have to kill Jesus to win?" Onson asked. "What the fuck have I been dragged into?"

"Again, it's the Holy Grail War. And you would do to stop thinking of it as ‘being dragged in.' You made a contract with a Servant. You chose to speak those words and begin the ritual. You may be young, and you may not be a magus, but you have a chance at a miracle, kid. Most people would kill for this opportunity. You already have! So just stick with it."

"I really don't like you," said Onson.

"You really don't have to," said the priest. "I'll protect you while you're here, whether or not we're buddies. And once you leave, fair warning, you're on your own."

"Fuck," said Onson, standing and brushing himself off. He felt around in his pocket for his cellphone and produced it. Zero bars. "Are we underground or something? I'm going outside to call my friends. We can figure this out." He started walking toward the exit, double doors opposite the altar.

"Careful, kid." Onson stopped. "I said you're on your own once you leave, and I meant it. You should realize the danger you now face, constantly. You are likely to be attacked the second you step outside."

"Great," said Onson. "Is there a back door?"

The priest shook his head.

"Assassin, go out first." She'll take a hit, I'll run.

"Gladly, Master." He was surprised. "We should come up with a plan first, though. Will you stay here until I have finished off our competition? The priest will watch you for as long as the war continues."

"What?" Onson threw up his hands. "You want me to hide in this hole until you're done murdering my friends?"

"That is one way to put it."

"Fuck no," said Onson. "We're going out, you're going to stop any psycho Servants that try to kill me, and I am going to talk to my friends. While you and your fellow magic assholes kill each other over this Grail thing, we'll bury our friend and drink ourselves into a stupor. If you make it to the end, good for you."

"I am surprised by your naivety, Master."

"Shut up, and get out there."

"No."

"Then fuck it I am _going._ "

"No." Assassin materialized in front of the doors, arms spread. She looked past Onson. "Priest, what is your name?"

"Hubert Manweal."

"You said the ritual was incomplete, and that Masters can't transfer their Command Seals willingly."

"Correct."

"I won't last long if my Master dies, but if I find a suitable replacement quickly enough, I can form a new contract, correct?"

"Correct."

Onson's heart caught in his throat.

"Hubert Manweal, Priest of the Church. Will you fight for the Grail?"

"Of course," said the priest.

"Wait—"

"You seem to be a magus. Will you not supply me with mana? Will you not guarantee our success?"

"Definitely. I would kill for the chance."

"Would you kill this boy?"

Onson fell to his knees, curled into a ball. Stop it, stop it—

"I can't do that," said Hubert. "Not while he receives my sanctuary."

"Then I will," shrugged Assassin.

She stepped toward Onson.

"Use a Command Seal, kid!" yelled the priest, and Onson found himself looking at the back of his right hand. He was hopelessly confused and scared, but he knew what he wanted more than anything else: to survive. Without fully understanding why, he focused on the flowers painted on his hand and wished for his life to be spared. One of the three flowers faded into his skin, leaving just the top and left side of the skull pattern intact. A red light flashed through the room and Assassin stopped, an arm's length away.

She spat at Onson's feet. The carpet wilted and burned where her saliva touched it.

"Sorry," said Hubert, addressing Assassin. "I can't let you kill him here, either."

"You are a lucky man," she said, disdainfully, looking down on Onson. "And I am a fool for bringing you here to protect you."

Onson said nothing, rocking slightly in place.

"The way I see it, we have three options. Would you like to hear them?" Assassin waited for a response, then continued when none was forthcoming. "One, you can hide here while I win the war. Two, we can step outside so that you can die and I can create a new contract with the priest. Three, we can formulate a plan for winning this war _together._ "

Assassin paced, the carpet crumbling beneath her bare feet.

"I will take care of him if he stays," said Hubert, "and I will take care of you if he goes."

"Master," said Assassin, impatient. She crouched down, knees, wrists, and face level with Onson's tired gaze. "Every second we waste, the enemy Servants refine their plans. They devise traps, prepare weapons. I don't have all day." She stood and stomped her foot. "If you can't talk, raise your hand. One, two, or three."

Onson thought he would die after all, then and there, burning to a crisp in his shame, as he lifted one finger above his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for making it this far. This is the longest chapter by quite a bit; I hope it flowed okay. One nice thing about having all these normal college students for Masters is that they need the Grail War explained to them, and the exposition hopefully isn't too unnatural. (This lets me introduce concepts to folks who aren't already deep in Fate lore.)
> 
> And for those of you who are . . . 
> 
> Never trust the Church! :D
> 
> Also, for Fate/GO fans, yes, I've brought David in as a Saber. Does this not work? Let me know in the comments!


	4. In the Labyrinth :: B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks into the semester, Karli is still adjusting.

In the Labyrinth

B

September 19

 

 

"Uh, am I interrupting?" Karli asked, only one foot in the room, hand still on the knob.

"No, no, come in," said Jerry, waving to her from his desk with a smile. Between them, Jass sat on Bobsom's lap, back to Karli, stradling him, legs glaringly bare beneath a hiked-up skirt that scarcely covered her butt. Her shoes were off, and her socks were on, suggesting that the bit of balled-up fabric tucked into her right shoe—

Karli blushed, hesitated. Jerry waved again, ushering her in.

"Close the door," he said.

Karli quickly obeyed, shuffling in and pulling the door behind her.

"I guess it's not quite a _public_ spectacle," she said with a lame laugh, hoping the joke would lighten an atmosphere heavy with kissing and panting.

"Helps keep the mana in," corrected Anatoli. He didn't look up from _Reform or Revolution_ as he spoke. He was a first-year like the rest of them, but he had been here before the others, and he seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the vagaries of Jerry's experiments.

Onson locked eyes with Karli from his spot by the window where he had been tending to his orchid. He smiled as if to say he had appreciated her joke. He was good at that, had been good at that from the start.

Raul and Rey were in class, and with Jass in Bobsom's lap, there were four empty chairs. Karli didn't know which seat to take, which way to face, which direction to look, but she also realized she wasn't uncomfortable. She loved Jass, and she loved Bobsom, and Jass and Bobsom loved each other. Karli didn't know what it was. Maybe it was a deep-seated voyeurism. Maybe it was the hypnotic quality of Jerry's gentle humming. Maybe it was just the overwhelming beauty of the orchids.

Karli sat down directly adjacent to Bobsom, patted him on the shoulder, and felt at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much? :)


	5. 03 - The Limits of Imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karli returns to Jerry's office with Caster to retrieve the orchids.

"Does this satisfy you?" Caster asked, standing back and looking at Karli Dandleton's face.

"You fixed it all," she murmured in amazement.

"I did no such thing," Caster said sternly. "It was your faith that repaired this building."

They stood on Greene Street, looking up at Jerry's office. Where seconds before had been a gaping hole, there was now a neat facade. Sneaking past the police line had been easy, too: with a word Caster had Jedi Mind Tricked the cops on guard. Karli believed in magic—she had to have, to participate as she had in Jerry's ritual—and now she believed in something else, too. What twelve years of Catholic school had only served to cast doubt upon was undeniably true. Here was living proof of God.

 

 

When Caster had explained the Grail War to her, Karli had done the requisite mental gymnastics to accept everything he said. She accepted that she was a Master, and he, a heroic spirit made manifest by the power of the Holy Grail, her Servant. They would have to defeat the six other Servants—Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Assassin—in order to complete the ritual Jerry had started and have their wishes granted. No, only five: Archer's Master, her dear friend Bobsom, was already dead.

"If you're here, does that mean the rapture is happening?" she had asked, hesitant.

Caster had thought long and hard about that one, as if puzzling through a lengthy computation or accessing deep memories. "I see that my legend has grown to absurd proportions in my absence," he had laughed, ultimately. "But whatever is said of my powers, it was never my own will or ability that changed the world. I always said I was above all a son of Man. My connection to the divine is as anyone's: a belief in the glory of God."

Karli had gaped at that one.

Now she stood in a deserted street as news helicopters circled above. She was invisible to them, Caster assured her, as the truth of God had been to the Pharisees. "Can you hide me forever?" His class suggested that he was a powerful magician, but he denied it. "The only thing I control is what I say, to whom, and when. Others may arrive at truth without me."

"Why do you seek the Grail?" she had asked. "Is it not your own blood that makes it Holy?"

"I don't know," he had admitted. "I doubt the object of this ritual is that same goblet. As for my wish, I should like to keep that to myself for now."

Karli hadn't pressed him.

 

 

"Shall we?" she asked, pointing up at Jerry's office. The sun was beginning to set. If Caster was to be believed, time was of the essence. They had to move.

Caster nodded, produced a whip, and with one crack broke down a door.

They entered the dark hallway and followed the glowing green EXIT signs in reverse, slowly making their way up the U-shaped stairs to the fourth floor. Halfway up, Caster stopped, one hand on Karli's shoulder.

"What's wr—"

The thunderous sound of galloping cut her off. It was right below her, on the stairs. She didn't have a second to think before the gleaming white stallion burst onto the landing beneath her, its white-clad rider brandishing a riding sword. Caster quickly maneuvered between her and and the mounted warrior. Karli, a deer in headlights, hoped that God would see her faith, no longer a blind faith nor a skeptical faith, hoped He would see how she gave herself up to his glory. _It's not that I need a miracle to survive_ , she understood. _It's that God is merciful, and that already is the miracle_.

With a word from Caster that Karli didn't understand, the stairwell glowed with white light and the stairs folded up into a solid wall. The rider crashed headlong into it, then—judging by the sound—fell crumpled on the landing.

"Run," urged Caster, and they ran.

"Karli, Princess," came a voice from behind them as they cleared the third floor. It sounded like a young John Cusack, and Karli looked over her shoulder to see the most beautiful man in the world walking up the steps toward her. She'd never seen a smile before, she realized. This was a smile and no one else on this miserable planet was capable. He wore a suit of all white, like Caster's robes, with a red sash, like Caster's but narrower, running between golden epaulets and a golden belt. His sword hung on his hip. His hands were empty, both outstretched as if to welcome Karli into the hug that would ruin all other hugs.

He was gaining on her, and she became dimly aware that she had stopped running.

Why would she?

"Come, my Princess," he said, stopping at the landing and extending his arms. "You have worked so hard."

She had! She had fought tooth and nail for her 4.6 GPA, her scholarships, her summer jobs. She had met the every need of her nasty sisters, and taken care of all the housework, too! And when she finally got her acceptance letters, she stayed here, in her hometown, so that she could be just a few subway stops away from her stepmother's house. She visited weekends, doing laundry, tidying, scrubbing. She had worked incredibly hard! And she thought she would always continue to. Was this beautiful man offering her a break? He loved her, she could tell; he would treat her well, reward her for her toils, offer her massages at the end of each day.

In a daze of fantasies, Karli took a step toward him.

Then Caster's hand was on the collar of her shirt, pulling her away, and she remembered that she didn't have any sisters. Her mother and father were happily married and supporting her through college. They lived in Columbus, and the beautiful man was drawing his sword, smile forgotten.

They ran up the last flight of stairs, chased by the dashing stranger, and Caster closed the hallway behind them with a brief incantation.

"I'll hold him here," he said, "you get the plants."

Karli nodded and started down the hall. Behind her, she could hear metal ringing on stone, crashing and crumbling. This was the Holy Grail War. Caster was her Servant, and he was battling another. They could fight to the death. Perhaps the man in white would win. Karli didn't care too much about winning, and she understood that if her Servant died she would be removed from he war, safe, a civilian once more. The thought upset her more than she thought it would. She thought back to the summoning chant as she ran. She had promised to be all that was good. But Caster was all that was good. A direct channel to God, the strongest voice of humility and faith. She couldn't bear the idea of him losing, dying. She wanted to see his wish come true.

That's why she was here, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath outside Jerry's door. She wasn't a magus. She couldn't replenish her Servant's mana. Luckily, Jerry had prepared the orchids, which Caster had assured her were powerful stores of mana. "Like giant batteries," he had said. For three months Karli had tended to her own, watched her friends tend to theirs, all while Jerry watched over them.

"We're healing the world," Jerry had said. "The love and attention you show these flowers will multiply within you."

A "manaetic experiment," Jerry had called it. He had mentored the seven, nurtured them as they nurtured the orchids, dispelled their every frustration. Mana was the life force of the planet, of every living thing on it, and it was also an energy source to be tapped for magic. "None of us can do that, of course," Jerry had laughed. The wizards had all died off with Rome. But he was interested in mana regardless. Not to do magic, but to build people up. Mana saturation was for the soul what nine hours of sleep was for the body. That's how he had explained it. And the orchids were the foci. By developing the orchids' mana pools, he had said, the group would develop their own. "We build each other up," he would say, his favorite catchphrase. "We" included the orchids.

Karli felt like there were some disconnects between what Jerry had said and what Caster had told her, but that wasn't a surprise. Jerry had clearly been wrong about something: it was after six p.m. on November 28th, and he did not have the Grail. Nor would he ever, Karli assumed. He hadn't returned her texts, her calls. He had vanished.

In the meantime, Karli _had_ received a text—one text, from Jass, on the group chat. "we need to talk." Caster had discourage replying, on the grounds that any response could give away vital information to the enemy. _Enemies_. Her dear friends, enemies. She had wanted to argue that point, but realized it was self-evident. Caster was all that was good, so were those opposed to him not necessarily bad?

Another deep breath, and she reached for the door knob. She heard a rustling inside, and froze, hand on that familiar knob.

_Enemies._

Of course, she kicked herself. Caster wouldn't have been the only Servant to notice the orchids. That's why the man in white was here. Doubtless his Master was already in Jerry's office. Or maybe there was a third Servant on the scene. Karli quickly stepped away from the door and ducked around the wall so that if something exploded out of the office she would be relatively safer, even if only for a moment before she could attempt to flee.

"Who's in there?" she asked, quietly. "Raul? Onson?"

"Karli?" It was a woman's voice.

The door opened slowly, creaking. Rey McSriff stuck her head out. Her gray-brown hair was in braids, and she wasn't wearing her glasses.

"Karli!" she exclaimed, relief flooding her face. She stepped out into the hallway. "I thought I was dead when I heard footsteps." She held in each hand one potted orchid. The pots, Karli noticed, had been repaired along with the rest of the room.

"Rey!"

Karli felt the same relief. Whatever Jerry's experiment had sought to accomplish, it had succeeded in cementing the bonds between the seven students. Karli loved Rey deeply, in every way. She felt like they had grown up together, like they had raised each other, like they had shared everything they could possibly have shared. Her immediate fear was pushed back as she hugged her friend, all rationalizing about enemies forgotten.

"Karli, we need to talk," said Rey, stepping back, shrugging out of Karli's arms, still holding onto the plants.

 _Jass's words._ "I know."

"No, you don't know. Listen. I'll share him, okay?" Karli blinked, confused. "You can have your pleasure with him whenever he's up for it, I won't bat an eye, I won't complain. I might even like it. Maybe we can have him together."

"What are you on about?" asked Karli.

"Karli, this is serious. You can have him, you can be had by him. I will do anything to make this work. Do you understand me?"

"Understand? You're talking nonsense." Karli dragged Rey into the office, further from the fighting down the hall. "Who are you even talking about?"

"My Prince," sighed Rey, flushed. She licked her lips, then sighed again. "Oh Karli, you're in for such a treat. I'll be a good senior wife, okay? We are going to have a beautiful family, the three of us."

Karli, at a loss, slapped Rey, and Rey dropped the orchids.

"Fuuuck, Karli!" Rey clutched her cheek, wincing. "That hurt!" She staggered back, resting with her butt against Jerry's desk. Then she put her hands at her sides and eased herself up onto the desk. She turned her reddened cheek to Karli. "Kiss it better?"

Karli wanted to, but how many minutes had passed already? How was Caster faring? Karli had to grab the plants and go. She and Caster would regroup at her dorm room, where he had begun building his territory. He wasn't good in prolonged combat, he'd warned her. Especially not without preparation. Most Casters had poor combat skills, he'd explained, but he was the worst of the worst: his legendary pacifism made him unable to do more than evade.

"We'll talk later, Rey." She moved for the window.

"Waaaait," whined Rey. She had Karli's right wrist in a vise grip. "You can't have those. They're our dowry."

Karli tried to worm out of Rey's grasp, but her friend was too strong. Each thing she said sounded more absurd than the previous. Karli had to get the plants and get out. Her mind focused on the solitary task, she pulled herself toward the windowsill, dragging Rey across the desk with her.

"This could be fun," Rey giggled. "I could stand to get handled by both of you at once."

Still freaked out by the false memories she'd entertained while staring into the smile of the man in white, Karli deliberately took stock of her memories of Rey.

This was abnormal behavior. The forwardness wasn't what was weird—it was the fixation on a man. Rey had experimented, as they all had under Jerry's supervision, trying on, as it were, a number of different relations. Despite the love Rey shared with the men in the group, she remained resolutely lesbian. With Karli's paradigms still reshaping, she nonetheless guessed this new behavior was the fault of magic. Some kind of charming enchantment, perhaps. Karli needed to act, and she decided that her friend simply wasn't in the room with her.

Karli twisted her arm, punching Rey at the same time with her left fist. Rey gasped and let go, and Karli took the opportunity to shove Rey to the floor. As Rey scrambled to stand, Karli scooped up four of the orchids and darted from the room.

"Got them," she called down the hall, to where Caster stood raising barrier after barrier of magical masonry, only to have them torn down just as quickly by the rapid onslaught from the other Servant.

Then she turned and ran, as fast as she ever had, making her way down the north stairwell and breaking out into the street. She was sure she looked a mess, hands red, gasping for air, clutching a bunch of potted flowers to her chest like stolen babies. Luckily, the police barricades were still up, and she was alone on the street. Praying to God that Rey would come to her senses, that Caster would survive, that no other Servants would show up before she was reunited with her Servant, she jogged raggedly toward Coral Tower.

 

# # #

 

The explosion had rocked the building, and with it the NYU community. All the buildings around Washington Square Park had been evacuated. NYPD and the fire department had shown up with barricades. Then the feds arrived. Sixteen years later, 9/11 lingered in the air, in the psyche.

Linda Bell, professor of English with research interests primarily around 19th century novels, had been one door over when Jerome Cormic's office blew up. Books flew off her shelves, and one of her own windows cracked as the walls buckled. She'd run into the hall, terrified, and left the building as fast as she could. People streamed out of 244 Greene Street, and soon there had been a stampede as people ran for the open space of the park.

She had been there. She had heard it, seen it, felt it. Her body ached from the dash, her ears from the noise.

So why, she wondered, for the first time in her life considering the fact that she might be one of the crazy people, why was this talking head on ABC News saying that there'd been a false alarm?

Alleged aerial footage of the scene showed no visible damage to the exterior. No rubble in the streets.

"NYPD is continuing to investigate the source of this hoax."

Linda screamed silently at her TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have a good idea of the identity of Caster, but who is this mysterious horseman? :D
> 
> As always, all feedback welcome. I'm a sucker for comments. Make my day <3


	6. In the Labyrinth :: C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raul visits Jerry's office on the weekend.

In the Labyrinth

C

November 11

 

 

"It's wilting a bit," Raul said, pointing to the middle orchid.

"So it is," replied Jerry.

No one else was in the room. Jerry wasn't humming. It was seven in the morning. A Saturday.

"That's Rey's, right. Mean anything?"

"Everything means something." Jerry flashed that smile, that infuriating smile. It ended arguments; it made Raul get up at this obscene hour.

"You won't tell me."

"I've already told you," chuckled Jerry, wagging a finger. "We build each other up."

Raul shook his head, unable to stop from smiling. The professor was a caricature of himself. But that was fine. Raul walked up to him where he sat at the desk, magical diagrams strewn about before him. With his right hand on his own orchid and his left on Jerry's chest, Raul bent forward.

"Sure we can build somethin up, Jerry."

Jerry just kept smiling, the gentle, knowing grin splitting his clean-shaved face. He was still smiling after Raul kissed him, unmoved, eyes twinkling. Raul's hand moved, and the top two buttons of Jerry's purple striped shirt came undone.

"Feel like talkin?"

"Hmm," said Jerry. He winked. "I feel like the answer might just be on the tip of my tongue."

Raul grunted, stepped back, and dropped his pants, the cool air of the unheated room bracing on the swollen nub of his dick. Jerry's expression didn't change. There wasn't a hint of surprise in his face. There never had been, and Raul treasured that. There was, of course, the sly smile, curling at the corners.

"My. We sure built something."

Jerry wasn't like this with the others. The teasing, the flirting. With the group, he was friendly but serious. When they were alone, he was out of control, silly despite himself. It was only when they were both spent, holding hands, staring down at the waking city through the window, that Jerry could answer.

"Rey's depressed, Raul."

"What do we do?"

Jerry didn't answer, his grip on Raul's hand tightening as he watched the people go by below. He wasn't smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scandals abound!
> 
> Would love comments on what yall think is going on <3


	7. 04 - How Like a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raul picks a fight.

Raul Chamgerlain sat with his back to a tree in Washington Square Park, trying not to listen Berserker's stream as he pissed on a nearby bush, three limbs on the ground, one leg raised like a dog. The evening chill was starting to set in and Raul had no idea where to go or what to do. He couldn't safely return to his dorm room in Weinstein Hall. He and Anatoli were roommates. That situation had oscillated between lovely and thrilling for three months, but now it was just complicated. Jerry's ritual had changed everything. Raul's cellphone battery had died, and his charger was in that room, a room he didn't dare return to. He couldn't reach his friends and he didn't know if he would be next to go after Bobsom. He needed to get a new charger and find shelter, and Berserker's social graces weren't making it easy.

Berserker finished urinating and sat down crosslegged in front of Raul. With his hands on his knees, he assumed something resembling human posture.

Raul knew that this was Berserker, but he wasn't sure how he knew that. He hadn't been told. Berserker certainly hadn't told him. Berserker hadn't told him anything. Raul was starting to think that Berserker couldn't even talk. At the very least, he had zero interest in speech. His face bore a constant expression of tired disdain, apparent through caked-on layers of grime. Raul felt he had received the short end of the stick. Onson had summoned a cool-looking orc lady and Karli had Jesus Christ. What did he have? Berserker had muscles, sure—he was clearly jacked—but he smelled like shit and just grunted at everything. A washed up mute Conan.

Despite the lack of spoken communication, Raul found himself understanding more of his situation as he watched Berserker roll around in the underbrush. He had been thrust into a summoner's battle royale. His dog man had to crush some skulls. The other summons had to die for Raul to win, and one way to accomplish that was to kill the other summoners. Raul shuddered as he pictured Bobsom's putrefying face.

If he'd been asked that morning, "Hypothetical: you and your gang summon a bunch of weird aggressive entities and are forced to fight until only one remains. You can improve your odds by killing your friends. What does everyone do?" he would have said firmly, confidently, without a hair's hesitation: we will all survive. It would be a game to us, maybe a spectacle. We would send our summons against each other and sit back. Eat some popcorn.

But Bobsom was dead and now Raul wasn't sure he'd ever truly understood his friends. He watched Berserker reach down and grab his own crotch, then quickly looked away as the man's hand began jerking back and forth beneath his rags. Feeling a pang of envy for Berserker's apparently boundless sense of freedom, Raul shut his eyes to stop from staring. He didn't understand how Berserker could do this, not even remotely discretely, but maybe he'd never understood _anyone_. He had always been alone. Even his younger sister had abandoned him when he'd come out. New York was a fresh start. _Raul._ New name, new confidence. And for a while, it was working. Six new friends, dear friends, friends he could hug, friends he could kiss, friends he could talk to about his problems. But that was in Jerry's gentle presence. Optimism had abounded in that small office.

What would those optimists say now?

Jerry had vanished and his ritual had killed Bobsom. Raul thought of that sweet neck turning purple, the soft fuzz of Bobsom's chin blackening, flaking. As quickly as Raul had won this new life, he'd lost it. It was hard to believe, and the rationalizations developed themselves at light speed. They'd never been _that_ close. The group had been artificial, their relationships constructed by Jerry to incomprehensible ends. Jass had never liked how he and Bobsom spent their Tuesdays, rolling dice in the Geek NYC Monster Hearts game. Anatoli's brocialist sect had never put itself on the line to defend trans lives. And don't forget Onson, skyping his mom in Sweden, a little too proud to have a black friend. These people, however darling, were still raised in partriarchy, in racism, in heretonormativity.

Raul was tempted by a question that came into his head—what really IS socialization, anyway—but he brushed it aside. He didn't have the time nor the pressing need to philosophize about society. Instead he waited for Berserker to finish, reviewing what he knew.

Actions spoke louder than words.

He and his friends had, in fact, entered this battle.  
One of these friends had killed Bobsom, or had him killed.  
He had an incredibly strong, if incredibly filthy, man ready to fight for him.

The rest followed.

"Berserker?" he asked tentatively, eyes still closed, when the sound of the man's exultant panting subsided.

A grunt of affirmation, and Raul opened his eyes. Berserker crouched before him, once again on all fours.

"I wanna survive."

Another grunt.

"I wanna win."

A gleam in the dirty man's eye.

"So let's talk. Go over your powers, my part, strategy."

Berserker smiled and stood, stick suddenly in hand. He mimed hitting someone over the head with it.

"Talk, Berserker. Can't you talk?"

 _Why talk?_ Raul found himself wondering. Words are just used to hide the truth and justify the rules that allow one class to dominate society at the expense of others. If something is useful, it will be clearly expressed in actions, in the states of things. Raul laughed quietly.

"I guess we just go find a fight."

Maybe returning to his dorm room was the correct move. If Anatoli was similarly afraid to come home, Raul would have a safe and comfortable base of operations. And if Anatoli was there, Raul could take Berserker for a test drive.

"You get me," he said, "and I'm your Master, so listen up. I tell you the plan. We adjust based on how things develop."

Berserker grimaced at him, but did not urinate on him, so he continued.

"We go back to my place. I need to provision. We'll prolly run into one o' my—I mean, another Master. Anatoli. If we can beat his Servant without hurting him, I wanna try, but bottom line we gotta win. Keep me alive."

An assenting grunt encouraged him to stand, brush himself off, and walk the couple blocks to Weinstein Hall.

Berserker followed him.

The streets were empty. The whole area around Washington Square had been evacuated when Jerry's office blew up, and the barricades were still up. Raul took a half-block detour to pass along Greene Street, and he looked up to see that where at 4:30 there had been a crater in the side of the building, Jerry's office now seemed perfectly intact.

He wasn't even surprised.

He reached Weinstein Hall and debated what to do about Berserker. Could he simply bring him in? The residence hall hadn't been evacuated. It was just on the other side of the area that NYPD had decided to cordon off. Students would be milling about, many just now having their dinners, and while Berserker might not look too odd a sight in a public park, he definitely wouldn't fit into the chic lobby.

Somehow, Raul couldn't make himself care. He walked through the front doors with Berserker in tow. He wasn't sure how—he'd never been so calm, so effortlessly gregarious—but he smiled back at the students in the hallways who stared. Berserker followed him in near silence, and they took the elevator up to the seventh floor.

From the elevator Raul could already tell trouble awaited. He could see the door to his room as the elevator doors opened. It was ajar, the lights on.

He gestured for Berserker to follow him out into the hall, stepping quietly, wondering at his luck. There was no one else in the hall. All the other doors were closed. It would be just him and Anatoli, Berserker and whoever Anatoli had summoned. And in a straightforward, one on one fight, Raul felt confident. Berserker was strong, bestial. Who had Anatoli summoned? He couldn't remember—was it the archer? The pirate? Either way, he didn't think Berserker's odds could be too bad in close quarters combat.

Raul crept along the hall, back to the wall, heart racing as he approached his room. His stealth was wasted, however. Two doors away from his destionation, Berserker suddenly let out a guttural cry and leapt forward, stick in hand, charging ahead and into the room. Raul backed away, not sure he approved of Berserker's gracelessness but very happy to leave the confrontation to his Servant.

Some crashing noises ensued. Raul heard what must have been a desk collapsing, and then Berserker was thrown into the hall, landing on his back. He scrambled to his feet just in time to dodge the swing of an immense sword. The sword's wielder was hidden from sight, still in the threshold of Raul's room, but the blade was so massive its length crossed half the span of the hallway.

Raul backed further away and watched in awe as Berserker spun back into action and swung into the doorway, stick producing a bone-cracking sound. The sword fell to the ground, causing a slight tremor in the floor, and then Berserker reeled backward clutching his shoulder. Raul blinked. There had been another crack, and at first he couldn't place it, but then another two followed and Berserker shuddered in pain, staggering back from the doorway, blood seeping into his rags in three places.

A gun.

The sword lifted back into the air, its hilt and wielder still inside the room, then moved forward as its wielder walked into the hallway. It was the green-haired guy with a crown, the one who had appeared at Jass's side that afternoon. His left arm dangled by his side, and he held a sword clearly forged for a giant in his right hand. His posture suggested the blade be made of paper, so effortlessly did he hoist it into the air.

Berserker cowered, bleeding as the man raised his giant sword for the finishing blow.

"Wait!" screamed Raul.

"Wait?" asked the swordsman, glancing down the hall. "A curious entreaty, to demand patience now. My Master called a parley and you came seeking blood. I think we shan't wait."

He swung his sword down, but the seconds Raul had bought were enough, and Berserker rolled out of the way before jumping onto the man's shoulders, clawing at his face with his hands and biting at his hair.

"Hold still!" came an unfamiliar female voice from within the room.

The swordsman dropped his weapon again, trying to bat Berserker off with his good hand.

Raul felt helpless. He didn't know why he had felt confident a moment ago. He didn't get the memo about a parley. He was in the dark. Jass's Servant was here, and there was a woman he didn't know inside. And there was a gun.

Help, he thought, help! Why won't the doors open, why won't other students come out? For the first time in his life Raul wished for security to appear, for someone trained in violence to intercede on his behalf.

No doors opened. No one came running. The entire floor of students somehow ignored the ruckus. Of course. None of Raul's cries for help had ever been answered.

The swordsman managed to dislodge Berserker and, blood streaming down his own face, threw him to the floor.

The two glared at each other for a moment, both wounded, and then Berserker turned tail and ran away, scampering on all fours down the hallway toward the elevator. He didn't say a word as he fled, leaving Raul to collapse to the floor, feeling more vulnerable than he had since leaving everything behind in Indiana.

"Raul Chamgerlain, I take it?"

Raul found himself unable to begrudge Berserker his escape. He knew he, too, needed to run. Fight or flight, a basic binary for animals. And weren't men merely animals? What did that make Raul, he wondered as he knelt there dumbly—more or less than an animal, than a man?

The swordsman retrieved his sword, then made it vanish it by waving it. He stepped aside, clearing the threshold, and pointed into Raul's dorm room.

"I think you should talk to my Master. And make sure your cur doesn't interfere again."

Raul snorted. How like a man, to talk down to a dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raul had an unhappy childhood, clearly, and the collapse of Jerry's group is probably hurting him the worst of anyone. (Except Bobsom, rip)
> 
> Any guesses as to Berserker's identity? :D


	8. In the Labyrinth :: D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatoli is an SJW.

In the Labyrinth

D

October 4

 

 

Anatoli sighed as he slid into the office. He dropped a heavy bundle of papers on the floor, then shrugged out of an even heavier backpack. Red socialist patches covered his gear.

"How was tabling?" asked Karli, tentatively, looking up from her sketchbook.

Jerry hummed softly as Rey painted Onson's nails black. Raul was watering the orchids lightly, and Bobsom dozed in the corner, curled up with his head against a bookshelf. Jass was still downstairs, selling papers.

"Well, people are properly mad about Trump chucking paper towels into the crowd," Anatoli said, unzipping the collar of his fleece jacket and fanning himself, "but it's amazing how many folks think the so-called 'resistance' is going to solve all the problems our Puerto Rican sisters and brothers are facing."

He grimaced as he said the word "resistance," and the room shuddered.

"Anatoli," said Jerry, calmly, not looking up from the diagram he was drawing.

Just that: his name.

Anatoli nodded at the unstated reminder not to bring negativity into the space. He did a quick body scan, and approached Karli.

"Can I bum some water off you?"

She smiled, happy for the request, happy to share. She produced her water bottle and handed it to him. Anatoli quenched his thirst, enjoying the taste of her lips on the mouth of the bottle.

"I'll go refill it," he said.

"That's the way," said Jerry, more to himself than to anyone, smiling as he doodled.

Anatoli left the room, careful to close the door behind him before letting out another sigh. Jerry's experiment was great, his goals greater, but did it all need to be based on such apoliticization? The mana of seven undergrads didn't seem more important than the lives of 1.5 million people left without power in the wake of Hurricane Maria. Surely there had to be some way to build each other up while still discussing the world's problems?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm representing a number of political perspectives in this story, so you may not be entirely sure to which I ascribe, but Trump can eat a bag of dicks.


	9. 05 - Ideals Before Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert ups his game as supervisor. Raul simmers in captivity. Jass and Anatoli have an agreement.

"Karli? Karli Dandleton?"

Hubert looked the young woman over. He sat in a front row pew in his small sanctuary, gazing into another room through the device in his hand. Moments earlier it had been a mirror, reflecting his own handsome visage and dimly-lit environs. Now it was a magical channel to another place. Caster's Master, standing in a small bathroom, looked a little dumb. Her haircut didn't work and she was pudgy in the wrong places. There was toothpaste on her lower lip.

"The hell?" Karli asked, dropping her toothbrush and frowning back. "Caster, do you see this?"

A man who looked like a brown Jesus stepped into view. Words and numbers floated above his head, likely invisible to Karli. This information confirmed for Hubert that this was Caster, with his Servant stats properly visible to the supervisor of the Grail War.

"Magecraft," said Caster simply. "I think this magus wants to talk to you."

Karli looked at Caster, then back at Hubert. She and her Servant crowded together at the bathroom sink. She tried waving awkwardly.

"My name is Hubert," Hubert said, in his friendliest voice. "I am with the Holy Church, sent to supervise this Grail War in which you find yourself. I am reaching out to all the Masters, to offer you shelter in my sanctuary as you need it and to answer any questions I am capable of answering."

Karli opened her mouth, but Caster was faster to speak.

"I have a question." He looked angry. "Why does this time have so many Christians who blatantly plug their ears, cover their eyes to the glory of God?"

Hubert blinked. This Caster was going to be trouble.

"I can answer your Master's questions about the war," he said, sidestepping.

"I'm also curious about Caster's question," said Karli, "and I don't think it's irrelevant to the topic of the war. If I'm fighting my friends in order to bring Caster's wish to the people of this world, I'd like to know what role you play. Holy Church? Did you engineer this nonsense?"

"My child." Hubert sighed. "I am a mere observer. The engineer, if you could say there even is one, would be the Holy Grail itself, with some assistance from your recently deceased professor."

Karli squinted at him, clearly skeptical. "Okay, I have some other questions that you'll hopefully be more willing to answer."

"Shoot."

"How do we stop the war?"

"The only resolution can be the victory of one Servant over all others."

Hubert wasn't sure if her expression was one of skepticism or failed comprehension. She pressed on.

"What are these red marks on my hand?"

She held the back of her right hand up to the mirror. Three large nails were painted in red, arranged as the sides of a triangle.

"Command Seals," said Hubert. "You can use them to power your Servant's attacks beyond their normal capacity, or to order him to do something he normally wouldn't be willing to do."

"How will I find and defeat the other Servants? What's stopping us from just all going our separate ways, and never completing the war?"

"I am actually curious about that myself," he said. "But I know that your friends and the other Servants wish to win the Grail, and they will seek each other—and you—out. You may also feel the proximity of other Masters in your Command Seals."

"These?"

Karli held up her hand again. She was definitely taking too long to connect his previous answer to his latest. Like professor, like student.

"Any other questions?"

"Is this really Jesus?" she asked, pointing her thumb at Caster.

Hubert burst out laughing, despite himself. Of course it wasn't _Jesus_. Not exactly. A mere manifestation of the Grail's mana, given abilities and a personality by borrowing the information of a hero's soul, Servants were like Nietzsche's words: metaphors of metaphors. Twice removed from whatever person or legend they performed. Karli looked worried by Hubert's laughter, but Caster seemed unperturbed. It could be so fun to say there was no connection, that this was an evil impostor, and turn Master against Servant. The outcome of the conflict didn't matter. That's why he could play the role of supervisor, watching these children test drive the Grail War with no real stakes. He could say whatever he wanted. He was the supervisor, but he was also the audience, and he had the cast's ear.

"Sorry, my child." Hubert sighed, buying himself time as he tried to decide which lie to tell. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, this is Jesus, Son of Man, Son of God, our Lord and Savior."

Karli wrinkled her nose, saying nothing. Then she looked at Caster. They didn't say anything to each other, but Hubert knew they didn't need to. Even if Karli Dandleton wasn't a magus, her rights as a Master in the Grail War allowed her to communicate telepathically with her Servant.

Without looking back at the mirror, Karli bent down and picked up a scale. It looked heavy in her hands, a giant brick made to sustain, and quantify, the weight of America's morally bankrupt.

Then Karli swung the scale at Hubert, shattering her mirror and severing the connection.

As his reflection faded back into view, Hubert sat back and placed the hand mirror on the seat next to him.

That had gone okay, he decided. The kids these days didn't seem to dig him—Onson Sweemey hadn't spoken a word since Assassin had left, choosing instead to sulk in a corner of the sanctuary—but that was fine. He didn't dig them either. They all thought they were so special. Jerry's little chosen ones, drunk off the mana of the orchids, living it up in the ivory tower, bathing in cultural Marxist Kool-Aid. Yeah, he saw the way they looked at him.

With another sigh, he gathered his thoughts, straightened his collar, and picked up his mirror. It glowed in his hand, and another scene created itself in its lens. Hubert cleared his throat.

"Anatoli Dustice?"

 

# # #

 

Nothing they said made sense. Anatoli was talking about incurring divine wrath, about needing to bring things back to normal. Jass pled passionately about loss of life, about saving friendship. None of it seemed worthwhile to Raul. They were out of their minds, he thought. Concerned purely with what's normal, with society, they had abandoned the obvious. They weren't interested in the Grail, they insisted. They were wrong. Any human would want the Grail. Their care was pretense. As much was obvious in their Servants who, despite being dematerialized at the moment, still exuded a powerful sense of impatience for their arguments. Raul could feel it; couldn't they? Lancer and Saber weren't interested in their Masters' appeals to what's normal for 21st century college students. They wanted the Grail, and they knew their Masters did too. We all wanted the Grail. We said it was for Jerry but didn't we all want it? No one would turn their nose up at a miracle. And Jass, crying about Bobsom like that. They were always fighting. It was subtle. It was small. They always patched it up, for appearances. They knew that Jerry would be sad if they hurt his experiment. So they were happy. They were happy for Jerry, not for each other, themselves. Well Jerry was gone. He had opened a Pandora's Box, in a sense. The evil was the Servants, the hope left behind the Grail. Raul had messed up. He'd been captured. But his Berserker had retreated, and these idiots who cared about friends before miracles weren't going to hurt him. Soon Berserker would return and free him. Jass and Anatoli would see what their morals and qualms were good for when their Servants—and they, as well, if necessary, why not—were rotting outside the city gates, their names scratched into shards of pottery.

"Anatoli Dustice?"

One of the chips of Raul's old standing mirror gleamed. Anatoli reached for it, picking it up carefully. Pieces of broken furniture littered the dorm room where Berserker and Saber had tussled. Raul saw the tiny man waving at him in the mirror shard, and had a visceral reaction to the image despite himself. He didn't understand why. He wasn't of himself or of his own anymore, so why should the thumb-sized Nazi bug him? Soon he would be scavenging for food in the ruins of a hypocritical world. His beliefs were temporary. All ideology was. What curtain could contain the truth of the world forever? The sycophants of morality would fight tooth and nail for their hegemony, but it would crumble even as they clawed for it. There was no avoiding it. The impermanence and hubris of society were too enormous to bear. The masses would come to their senses eventually. Even if Jass and Anatoli didn't make it.

"Who are you?" Jass asked, addressing the mirror.

"The mascot," spat Raul.

Anatoli looked over at him, worry clear on his over-involved face.

"Three Masters together, I see."

"You know about the Grail War?" asked Anatoli.

They prattled on for what seemed like an eternity. Raul sat back against the wall and rested without falling asleep, not caring to hear about the concerns of his old friends nor the opinions of this "priest" Hubert. He was just explaining how the Grail War worked, all obvious if you took a moment to consider it. The problem with people like Anatoli and Jass was that they were too smart. They had truly learned the ways of society, the common knowledge. They were so smart that they had sought to understand it and, in so doing, become slaves to it. Reality escaped them and they relied on the explanations of miniature Nazis in order to adapt their paradigms to new information. And that was fine, in a way. Raul didn't hate them for their intelligence. He didn't mind, even if he judged. It was their prerogative and he wouldn't get in their way. Reality, though? Reality would get in their way. They would have to come to terms with the fact that they wanted to win. They would have to come to terms with the methods of winning. Jass would have to do to Anatoli what someone had already done to Bobsom. Her Saber, the shepherd king with the boyish face and giant's sword, would doubtless obey. He wanted the Grail. He wanted the Grail more than anything.

That's why they're here, you sophomores, he almost shouted. We didn't force them into bondage with our summons. We offered to help them attain the Grail. But it would be too sweet to let his genius peers figure it out for themselves. Smiling at the thought, Raul allowed himself to nod off.

 

# # #

 

With Raul finally asleep, Jass put a hand on Anatoli's shoulder. He was, as ever, soft to the touch. He had thick black hair, thicker eyebrows, a full beard. His outfit—double fleece over flannel-lined jeans—completed his teddy bear quality. Beneath the cuddly exterior lay well-grounded wit. She gazed at Raul's sleeping form as she transferred some of her weight to Anatoli.

"I'm worried about him."

"No shit. It's like he's a different person. Hell, he might be."

"He does seem to be affected by some kind of magecraft," said Saber, materializing next to Raul, one delicate hand resting lightly on the unconscious student's brow. To Jass, he added, speaking directly into her mind, _without my Magic Resistance skill, I think I would be too_. _Berserker was emitting a faint Bounded Field_. The words, issued telepathically, did not make much sense to Jass, but she understood that her Servant had an ability he did not want to announce to Anatoli or Lancer.

 _Can you remove it with your lyre?_ she thought back.

_Probably. Would rather do it later._

_We'll see_ , thought Jass.

Saber dematerialized, leaving the three students alone in Anatoli's dorm room. It was a mess. Raul's bed and desk lay in pieces on the floor, mattress torn open and wood splintered everywhere. Berserker's entrance and the initial clash with Saber had leveled half the room and set Jass's heart beating faster than she could recall it ever beating. She counted herself lucky to have been seated next to Anatoli on his bed when the fight started. She sat there still, watching Raul. He was seated in the wreckage of his desk, back against the wall. They'd asked if he wouldn't be more comfortable in a chair, or on Anatoli's bed even, and he had laughed at them.

"So what do we do?" asked Anatoli.

The supervisor Hubert had confirmed Jerry's death and countless details as to how the Grail War was supposed to work. His explanations had raised some new questions and concerns, but they had clarified a lot. Most crucially, he had confirmed Saber's claim that for the Grail to grant a wish, the war would need to reach a resolution, with only one remaining Servant. This crystallized for Jass that beyond getting her friends on board with her plan to resist the war, she needed to get their Servants to approve her plan. So far, she had Anatoli and his Lancer, the red-haired pirate lady. Anatoli was more than friend; he was a comrade, and she trusted him implicitly. He assured her that Lancer's wish was compatible with their plan. Saber was not so trusting, but he agreed to the uneasy alliance.

And uneasy it was. Hubert's comments had done nothing to diminish Jass's fear that Saber might take fate into his own hands at any point if he deemed her methods insufficient for acquiring the Grail. She understood now that Servants needed mana to manifest and fight, and that, not being a magus herself, she wouldn't be able to sustain him for long. If she waited indefinitely for her friends to come to her, to consider her plan and join her, she could lose Saber. And before that, he could sense his imminent dissolution and turn on her.

The only fool-proof safeguard against this seemed to be to use all three of her Command Seals to permanently dismiss Saber, and that wasn't a tactic she felt safe discussing with her friends. Even suggesting it might provoke his ire, or Lancer's. No, Jass's best bet was to act quickly, decisively, to solidify an alliance around her wish and then win.

She rested her forehead on the side of Anatoli's head, head aching from the strain of contemplating possible scenarios. How long was too long to wait for her friends to join her? Rey, Karli, and Onson hadn't even replied to her text. Raul had shown up, but he had shown up swinging. She'd had Anatoli reach into his pocket and check his cell phone, curious if Raul had even seen her message. It had been powered off, out of battery.

"Think anyone else is coming?"

"It's been an hour, Jass. I'm worried our Servants might be right about this one. Most people in this position would just want to win." Anatoli put a hand on the back of her head, holding her to him. His hand was warm, relaxing.

"If they're right, why are we both here?"

"Guilt," Anatoli suggested simply.

"Guilt?"

"If I'd held the line in Jerry's office, none of this would have happened. As for you, you can't accept that it could have been you killing Bobsom."

Anatoli had a blunt streak. It served him well in political debates, but it sure wasn't his most comforting feature. Comfort wasn't the point, though: even as his words stung, Jass knew there was truth to them, and the warmth of his understanding helped immensely. For a moment she could have sworn there was something orchid...ic? orchidinal? about him. He resembled the plants they tended daily for the past months: an endless reservoir. Was this what Jerry called mana? Was his pool big? She felt like she could take a dip in it.

"I'm glad you're here," she said smallly.

"Me too," he said, offering with gestures to make her an instant cocoa using his electric kettle.

She nodded, lifted herself off of him so that he could stand.

"It would be great if our plan works out," she said, trying for the positives.

"Seems possible," said Anatoli. "I don't want to be too optimistic. I expect there will be more surprises, especially from our new British friend." Jass nodded. Maybe they would talk about her new concerns. She waited for Anatoli to say more, and waited, and was almost certain he wouldn't pursue the line further when the kettle went off and he finally said, "I wonder if Jerry knew he was being 'supervised.'"

"Yes!" cried Jass. "Thank you!"

Raul grumbled and stirred, but remained asleep. Jass made a note to lower her voice.

"We were both thinking it, right?" Anatoli handed her the cup. "This guy didn't come out of nowhere. He knew we were going to do that ritual. For all we know, he could have killed Jerry himself. He has an… unsavory air."

"Yes. For all we know, he was manipulating Jerry in the first place. Maybe it was never Jerry's intention to make us fight."

"Possible." Anatoli grimaced. "Look, I don't know how best to put this but I don't want to spend too much time considering Jerry's innocence in all this, painful though it is to say. He was really fantastic, but a lot of evidence points toward him being some kind of evil genius magic scientist who was just conducting fucked up research on us."

Jass lowered her face over her drink, let the steam bathe her features.

"You're right, Anatoli," she said quietly, "you were always right."

"I wasn't right when I let Onson talk me into summoning Lancer," he reminded her. "And in retrospect, I may have also been wrong when I joined Jerry's Intro to Historical Fiction."

"Don't say that." Jass took Anatoli's hand and clutched it against the side of her cup, warming it next to her lips. "I would be so lost without you right now."

 _We can use this_ , Saber communicated to her. _Your grief, and your potential as a romantic partner to this stoic young man, are potent tools in cementing the alliance you seek_.

Jass released Anatoli's hand and frowned into her drink. She didn't want to use Anatoli. She wanted to work with him. And she certainly didn't want to lead him on. She loved him, of course—they all loved each other, and that was part of what was so weird with Raul tonight—but Bobsom had taken the majority of her present romantic capacity with him to the grave. Her soul was still raw where he had been torn from her just hours earlier. The anime posters above Anatoli's bed did not soothe her.

"To be clear," she began, but then she didn't know how to finish.

"Jass, I think we should assume no one else is coming. It's getting late, and we're all tired." Anatoli looked out the dorm room window into the Manhattan evening. "We should stick together, so that we can have each other's backs, rotate a watch with our Servants, neither of us gets ambushed. Tomorrow we can bring our plan to the branch."

"Okay," said Jass. "Sleepover!" Her joke enthusiasm belied an actual enthusiasm. Even if Raul was unconscious, and a temporary, magically-addled lunatic while conscious, this was still three of them together. All alive. She worried forRey, for Karli, even for that asshole Onson, all out there somewhere. Maybe fighting each other this very moment. But she couldn't do anything for them from where she was. She had tried, and she would keep trying, to get them on her page. She would text again before sleeping, informing them of her alliance with Anatoli. More invitations, more appeals to friendship. They hadn't worked on Raul, but he was under some kind of weird enchantment. The others might yet come around.

"You can have the bed, I'll take the floor."

"I don't mind sharing," said Jass.

Anatoli smiled at her sadly. "I thrash around a lot in my sleep. Don't worry about it."

Jass shrugged and finished her cocoa. Anatoli stood, recovered the blanket from the splinters of Raul's bed, and laid it out in the middle of the room. Before lying down, he walked over to the closet and produced a roll of duct tape.

"What's that for?"

He jerked a thumb at Raul. "Never too safe."

Jass agreed, and the two set to binding their friend. Halfway through the process, they looked at each other, made eye contact, and chuckled, realizing simultaneously that what could have been a quick restraining job had turned into a ritual of care. As with all the things they had done together in Jerry's office, here they paid attention to every movement, to the folds of Raul's clothes and to the air in his chest, to the flow of kindness through themselves and the tape into Raul's body. In this act they were _securing_ their friend, and the world was richer for it.

Finally Anatoli dimmed the lights and they both lay down. A few minutes passed.

"Jass?" he asked softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"What's up?"

"This was all you," he said, tone veering toward mumbling, a sure sign that he was sleepy. "Banding together… united around a wish for a better world. I didn't think of it. Before you got here, I was paranoid." He yawned, rolled over. "Could only think of danger, fear. Fuck it, though, you're right. With a miracle in our hands, why avoid utopianism?"

"You're sweet," Jass said.

"No, _you're_ sweet," Anatoli said, grumpily. "We have…"

He trailed off. Jass reached over the edge of the bed to where he lay on the floor and poked him in the arm.

"…Nothing." After another magnificent yawn, Anatoli finished. "To lose but our chains."

Jass smiled. They would turn the world upside down with their wish. Improve life for billions. There were no shortcuts to or in revolutions, she'd learned. But now they had a chance at a miracle.

"Night Anatoli."

She drifted off uneasily, fantasizing about an alternate reality in which she, Anatoli, and Raul were having this sleepover under happier circumstances. Hot cocoa, discussions in the dark about society, politics, life, and love...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was something. Hubert's perspective is pretty uncomfortable to write, but I think the story needs it, especially later on. With Jerry dead, he's the only one who actually understands what Jerry was and did, and his insights will be key as we get deeper into the tale.
> 
> Raul's quite the cynic, eh?
> 
> Jass and Anatoli are the sleeper power socialist couple that're definitely going to save the day. 
> 
> :D
> 
> As always, any feedback welcome. Comments encouraged! What are your thoughts at this juncture?


	10. In the Labyrinth :: E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the first days of the semester, Rey McSriff struggles with arithmetic.

In the Labyrinth

E

September 8

 

 

"This is Bren." Rey had an arm around the other girl's waist as she introduced her. Bren was tall and wide, cutting a roguish figure in a rumpled white dress shirt and flooded navy slacks. The septum piercing at the base of her hazel nose glinted in the afternoon sunlight, unforgivingly bright through the office's west-facing window.

Jerry raised an eyebrow.

"She's in your Medieval Chronicles lecture," Rey said by way of explanation.

There was no one else in the office.

"Office hours are from 3 to 4 on Thursdays," Jerry said curtly, with a too-polite smile.

"I was thinking—"

"I only have eight chairs." Jerry pointed around the room. He sat on one; seven others were scattered about the room.

"No one else is here," said Rey. "What's the big—"

"Whatever, Mickey," said Bren, holding up a palm to Jerry. "This is dumb. Let's bounce."

"It's not _dumb_ ," protested Rey.

The girls separated. Jerry twirled a red pen between his fingers. Bren looked around, eyes finally settling on the seven orchids.

"I can see I'm not wanted here."

She turned and walked away.

"What the hell, Jerry?" Rey stood in the doorway, back to the jam, one foot pointed inward, to the orchids, to Jerry, the other itching to follow Bren.

"I'm trying to do something specific here," Jerry said, "for all of us. It simply won't work with more people right now. Maybe later. You have to trust me." His voice was sweet honey, his eyes apologetic. He'd stopped fiddling with his pen. Rey had his full attention, and it felt good.

"I just thought—"

Rey thought of Bren's jokes, her smiles, her lips, her tits, her pussy, the satisfying sweat they'd shared the night before. The rush, thinking she could share this group with her, that she could share her with this group. It was such a good fit. Surely Jerry could see that. She would chase after Bren, bring her back, make her case. Do a better job.

"Close the door behind you, please."

Rey did, and when it was shut, she was inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :<


	11. 06 - Panacea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free of her master's wishy washy attitude, Assassin makes a play for the Grail.

Assassin hovered upside down, invisible, immaterial outside the window on the fourth story of the big brick building into which Berserker had followed his Master an hour earlier. With her Presence Concealment skill, even Saber and Lancer couldn't have noticed her throughout their fight with Berserker and the ensuing conversations with Berserker's Master and the priest Hubert. She, on the other hand, could sense the other Servants inside the room—immaterial but still there.

They were planning some kind of alliance, around a joint wish. Their wish was noble, selfless. Assassin sighed. Three thousand years less a self. She couldn't share their wish. She would have to kill them all.

But not right now. Their lights were off, the Masters dozing. It would be trivial to pass through the window pane, reach out and touch any of the Masters. But she would have to materialize, and the other Servants would crush her. She decided to bide her time. The chance would come. Someone would go to the bathroom. Saber and Lancer would be split into two guard details, and she could probably perform a safe hit and run with only one of them present. As she waited, she developed plans. She'd seen a fair bit of her enemies' weaponry. The giant sword seemed unique; it had to be some kind of Noble Phantasm. Then there was the redhead pirate's revolver. She would break into another student's room the next day when they were at class, use their computer to do research. If she knew the identities of the other Servants, it would become much simpler to manipulate them, to lure them into traps, to kill them.

As she plotted outside the dormitory building, a bright red convertible sports car pulled away from the curb below.

_Damn_ , she thought, kicking herself. _Under my nose this whole time_. She'd been too preoccupied with the dorm room. She didn't recognize the driver—a dark haired woman, by the look of it—but the woman in the passenger seat was a Master. She'd been in the room at the time of Assassin's summoning. Light hair in braids. Right arm hanging over her door, the back of the hand a reddish smudge.

Assassin dropped to the ground and gave chase, running in great bounds, light and fast in spirit form. When they reached the police barricade, the car came to a stop.

"Eric?" asked one of the cops, stepping up to the driver.

The lady nodded, and the cop saluted.

Assassin caught up to the car just in time to hop on the back before it pulled past the barricade. This would be too easy. She could creep forward, stretch out her hand, brush the Master lightly on the back of the neck. A quick roll backward onto the pavement, and the car's own speed would help her put distance between herself and the driver. She crouched down and extended her hand, materializing. In five seconds, the woman would be dead.

Then—as she leaned forward—she caught her first clear glimpse of the driver's face, reflected in the rearview mirror.

The reflection was a spark, and the tinder of three thousand years of sensory deprivation caught fast. A sudden lust tore through her body, incinerating her core. In staggering pain, her muscle control lapsed. She lost her footing and fell off the car, lying twitching as the car skidded to a halt a few yards ahead. She heard the car doors open, then slam shut. Incapacitated by her lust she thrashed in place, cursed green limbs flailing as her erstwhile quarry approached, a worried expression on her young face.

"Are you okay?" asked the young woman, bending down with one hand extended.

_The idiot_ , Assassin thought to herself. _If only I could take it. I'm pathetic. A defenseless Master a foot away, offering to sample me, and I can't even move toward her. Maybe she'll get closer still. Maybe she'll touch me_.

Then Assassin saw that the driver, too, had walked over, and with one arm held the Master back.

"Careful, Princess," Assassin heard herself saying, though she was sure she couldn't speak.

"She's another Servant, right?" asked the Master, looking from Assassin to her driver.

Dressed in a double-breasted white suit tailored, adorned with epaulets, red sashes, and golden chains, the driver cut an unnaturally beautiful figure. Her eyes shone, her wide smile white between dimpled cheeks. Her chin was soft but thin, delectable. Her dark purple hair spilled everywhere, and the front of her suit was open just enough to reveal the tops of her breasts.

Still writhing on the ground, the intensity of her painful desire enhanced with proximity, Assassin looked up at herself, incomprehensibly envious of her healthy brown skin. The driver was everything Assassin had hoped to grow into as a child. She had her face, her coloration, and she was beautiful. An unobtainable self-portrait.

"She's in pain," said the Master. "What can we do for her?"

"This is Assassin," the other Assassin said. "Bobsom's slayer. I don't know what has taken her, but we should put her out of her misery."

"Misery?" asked the Master, looking back to the Assassin on the pavement. "Rider, what about our wish? She's just a girl, same as me."

"My dearest Princess, our wish cannot be made true without the miracle of the Holy Grail. It is most unfortunate that this princess must suffer briefly for that miracle, but take heart. She, and all the other princesses in the Throne of Heroes, will still benefit from our victory."

"Wait," said the Master. "Even if she dies here, her heroic spirit will remain intact?"

Assassin closed her eyes, screwing up her face and focusing on the cold poisons flowing through her veins. She could beat this. She'd made it three thousand years. The Grail was at hand, and with it, her salvation.

"Of course," said the other Assassin. "I told you before, Princess. These other Servants are just projections created by the Grail's magic. Don't you trust me?"

"I do."

_Master. Master, can you hear me?_

"Thank you, Princess. Without your trust, I might lose my way. Now, my sword."

Assassin heard the sound of steel clearing a sheath. The pain was subsiding, but too little too late. She was no longer thrashing uncontrollably, but she would not be combat ready in time. _MASTER!_

_Assassin?_

Two foot steps, the sound of fabric stretching.

_Call me back, Master! Now! Use the Command Seal!_

_Huh? Is that how it—_

_NOW._ Assassin managed to force herself into a roll, and the first sword stroke hit the street. _I'm in danger!_

_Fine by me_ , Onson's thought entered her mind.

Of course, thought Assassin. He hates me. He wants to be done with me. I can't rely on him. I've never been able to rely on men. I'm cursed this way because of their cowardice. She tried to dodge again, this time failing to clear the other Servant's sword. It came down on her shoulder as she spun, digging deep. She felt her right arm go limp, flopping over her as she completed her roll. There was no pain, or at least nothing her body could register over the intensity of what she'd just experienced.

A second sword strike grazed her back as she continued her inadequate evasive pattern, and she felt lighter as her butt-length hair fell away where she'd been sliced.

_Then make me fight_ , she spat at her Master via telepathic link. _I will lose._

_Sounds good_ , Onson sent back. _As your Master, I hereby command you. Stand and fight!_

She sprang to her feet, pain dulled, eyes still closed, sensing the enemy's movements and strikes by observing the flow of mana around her soul. Her back and shoulder were roughly sewn shut and she felt a surge of power fill her. She couldn't flee, not after that command. She was bound to do her best here, to stand or fall fighting blind against her regal doppelganger. She took quick inventory of her status and abilities. Her skin, poisonous; her bodily fluids, more poisonous yet. She had knives, too, dipped in her own blood. And she had her home, but without a Master to supply her with magical energy, she couldn't manifest it.

Her best bet was to go for the Master, and hope that that ended the fight.

She dodged another sword stroke, flipping acrobatically to one side. This was more like it. She produced a couple knives from her waist sash and flung them toward her opponent, heard them clatter to the ground upon deflection. Another slash, another dodge, but this one was closer. The woman had called her Servant Rider. Assassin dodged another slash, and another, but knew she wouldn't be able to keep this up forever. Rider class Servants tended to be faster. She was agile, she was stealthy, she was deadly, but she couldn't outmaneuver her opponent forever. She needed a feint, something that would allow her access to the Master.

It was only after three narrow backflips away from Rider's sword, leaving her with her back to the door of the enemy's car, that she realized the answer had been under her nose the whole time. Something in that car was radiating an enormous amount of mana. She reached back, felt the petals of an orchid wither at her poisonous touch. At the same time, her magic circuits filled with juice. She leaned into the flower, gripped it at its base and ripped it from its pot. Mana bathed her. She was almost drowning in it.

"Fuck," she heard in her voice—a swear from this mimic Rider—and she leapt back again, clearing the car just as Rider's sword came down again.

She began the incantation as she evaded Rider's sword, the orchid shriveling into a crisp in her hand.

_I am the center of my garden_  
_Flowers my companions, glass my horizon_  
_Here alone is my world_  
_None may enter_  
_None may leave_  
_Antithetical to life, antithetical to death_  
_Untouched by man, nor touched by nature_  
_A doomed legend withers in solitude_  
_Unforgotten, renamed, loved, and murdered,  
_ _In Rappaccini's Garden_

She felt grass beneath her bare feet. It didn't wilt at her touch. This was her world, a powerful Bounded Field birthed from her internal reality: a Reality Marble. Rider would die here, choking on a thousand ambient poisons. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

She and Rider stood in a bright, circular greenhouse with a white wrought metal frame. All around them were flowerbeds. Pots with flowering vines hung from the glass ceiling on crystalline chains. The air was thick with the smell of Assassin's blood. In this space, everything was as it seemed except her. The plants even glowed a sickly green, announcing their toxicity to the world. There were no surprises or tricks in Assassin's garden except the lie of her own life. Here her appearance was as Rider's imitation of her: healthy, young, beautiful skin, untainted by the garden's poisons.

And Rider didn't look like Assassin anymore. He looked like what he was: a small frog.

His beautiful white suit lay in a wrinkled pile on the floor, smoldering on contact with the garden's plants. His sword lay discarded as well, corroded slightly in the two places it had struck her earlier.

The frog looked sick, already suffering from the baneful air of the garden. White fluids dribbled down his front, leaking from his mouth and eyes.

"Is this your true form, Rider?" Assassin mocked.

It croaked, shuddering with effort.

"Of course, a frog can't talk." She laughed lightly at this. Despite how she hated her condition, despite how she cursed those who had cursed her to be a weapon of assassination, robbing her of her girlhood, her womanhood, her life, she felt at ease in the garden. It was the home of her mind, a safe place. The plants here didn't die on contact. They were poison, like her, and only here could she feel like she was part of any kind of natural order. Her wounds were forgotten, the stress of the Grail War distant. She was untouchable here, almost Death itself, unkillable for she was not alive. And her opponent was a frog, whose entire strength as a Servant seemed robbed of him in his true form. No sword, no mount, no illusions. Rider, the frog.

In one more minute of exposure to the garden's toxins, he would be unconscious; in two, he would be dead. Of course, Assassin didn't have two minutes. Projecting her inner world upon the outer world took enormous amounts of mana, and Assassin didn't want to expend more of the orchid's power than she needed. Every second, reality encroached, the outer world seeking to fix this glitch. Already the glass panes at the edge of her Noble Phantasm were bending and cracking under the pressure.

She stepped over to the frog and picked it up.

"Let's end this, Rider."

The frog turned purple where Assassin's fingers curled around his body. Bits of his flesh dried and flaked away. The stench was beautifully masked by the garden's flowers.

"The Grail will be mine."

And then the frog, summoning the last reserves of its strength, bounded up and forward, head-butting Assassin in the mouth. No. Not head-butting.

The frog had planted its decaying mouth directly on hers.

In a flash, the frog was gone and a decrepit, naked purple-skinned man with thinning white hair and gaunt limbs stood before her, lips locked with hers. When was her last kiss with a person? She'd kissed hundreds of corpses. Despite clearly being sick, possibly still dying, the man kissing her was not yet dead. She pushed him away easily enough—he was as frail as he looked—and stumbled backward.

"How are"—he coughed up a generous amount of blood—"you, Princess?"

He fell to one knee, wiping the blood and bile from his lips with one hand. Assassin blinked in shock. Was his skin lightening? He looked healthier by the second. She didn't have much time left in the garden. She had to move forward, grab him, kill him—

But when she tried, her feet wouldn't move. She looked down and saw the grass and flowers beneath her feet clutching her. Her skin sizzled. Poisons shot up through her body, causing her excruciating pain. Her feet were purple, the same shade as her opponent, no, darker. This was impossible. She was poison itself. Her only weakness was antidotes, which would purge her from the world just as they would poison from a living being's system. But poison? She was invulnerable. Poisoning her was like trying to quench water.

"What's happening?" she asked, more to herself than to Rider, who was calmly dressing himself as she fell apart from the inside.

"I've saved you, Princess."

The greenhouse walls shattered and the suspended pots began falling one after the next, shattering to the ground around Assassin. As they fell, their contents splashed out, dashing poison at their erstwhile master. Every spray of poison doubled Assassin's pain. Her skin burned in a million places and her chest was tight.

She sank to her knees as her garden fell away, replaced with the darkness of the real world. It was evening in the city. She convulsed on the pavement at the intersection of University Place and East 13th. Rider's car sat parked behind her. Rider's Master stood in the distance. Rider, tall dark and handsome in his immaculate suit, raised his riding sword high above his head. Assassin couldn't talk, could barely think.

"Now that your curse has lifted, you ought to sleep well."

Then he brought his sword down on her dissolving skull, and she was vaguely aware of her material form dissolving into billions of units of magical energy before her consciousness was dispersed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assassin :'(
> 
> I'm sad to see her go, but it's not Fate if it's not punctuated by regular main character death! We hardly knew ya Poison Girl but in my opinion you rocked hard while you were here.
> 
> Does this encounter shed any light on Rider's identity for you, my dear readers?
> 
> Theories below!
> 
> Thanks as always for reading <3


	12. In the Labyrinth :: F

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang enjoys a moment. Anatoli does Anatoli things.

In the Labyrinth

F

September 20

 

 

There was a party in the street, people getting down to reggae beats in the end-of-summer heat. The joyous clamor wafted into Jerry's office in thick waves, and everyone smiled as he hummed along. The usual quiet focus was broken. Forgotten were the readers and dog-eared used books. Jerry sat at his desk, as he always did, and Anatoli, dressed in Socialist Alternative red, sat in a corner scrolling through news websites on his cell phone, but everyone else stood at the window, looking down, basking in the sunlight alongside their orchids. It started with Jass and Bobsom snaking arms around each other's necks, sweaty cheeks sticking together slightly as they grew closer. Then Rey put an arm over Bobsom's, adhering to Jass's right side, and Raul and Onson piled on. Opposite them, Karli hugged Bobsom's left arm to her chest.

"I never wanna leave," Raul laughed.

"My arms might cramp," said Rey, levity in her voice. They all felt it, the elevation of joining together. _We build each other up._

"I never realized how much I liked this," Bobsom murmured.

"What?" Onson craned his neck to lean in.

"Touch," Bobsom said. Karli swaddled his arm tighter between her breasts. "Ionno. My mom hugged me, and one of my uncles, I guess, when I saw him. Never had siblings, nor friends like y'all. This is new to me." He luxuriated in the moment, closing his eyes and rolling his shoulders under the weight of the huddle. "I like it."

"A lot of newness in this room," Onson agreed. "I like it too."

He nuzzled against Raul's cheek, then broke contact, offering his lips to his friend. They kissed slowly, thoughtfully, and Raul passed it up the line, through Rey to Jass, to Bobsom, to Karli. Karli held her kiss with Bobsom as the music outside reached a crescendo.

Anatoli stood up abruptly.

"Jerry, can I ask you a question?"

The humming stopped. "Of course."

"I just read that adjuncts voted 94% to strike last semester. What ended up happening?"

Jerry smiled. "I was on the bargaining team. We reached a compromise."

"Says here UAW sold out the membership."

Jerry gestured behind him, to the other students, to the orchids. To the primacy of his task. "Never cross a picket line," he sang, his Billy Bragg imitation disarmingly bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Never Cross A Picket Line" <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojPTz4VAOMA>


	13. 07 - Three Years to Waver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mage Association detective Redlan Voss arrives on the scene. Jass and Anatoli get ready to bring their plan to their party's attention. Onson is Onson.

November 29, 2017. 6:30 a.m.. Dawn. Blonde Roast acquired.

43 degrees. Dry. Clear. Tracking conditions not ideal. More than suitable.

Red rapidly translated his surroundings into data as he scanned about. There were no police barricades. The city was alive already at this hour, and pedestrians milled about Waverly Place without any apparent hesitation. He'd seen the news reports as they came in: first, that NYU Professor Jerome Cormic's office had been bombed, then profuse apologies for being taken in by a hoax. He'd been in his favorite diner in Boulder, CNN background noise on the walls. Even in the background, though, he couldn't miss that name.

He walked over and looked up at Cormic's office window, the epicenter of the mana bloom in Manhattan. The university building was still closed, so he meandered to the nearby park and sat impatiently on a bench. He didn't need to be cold, but he played the part, turning his coat collar up and holding his coffee with both hands. He could be comfortable anywhere, in any dress. Even in New York City, at 6:30 a.m. in November. Minor thaumaturgies could eliminate any discomfort, but he didn't want to stand out. Everyone else was dressed in heavy coats and scarves, heads bowed as they walked, so Red followed suit.

He drank his coffee slowly, taking in what he could see from his seat. The arch, lots of trees.

Six years. Six years since he'd last seen Cormic, struggling against his bonds as Red's Clock Tower colleagues guided him deeper and deeper underground. Red had assumed that would be the last he'd see of Cormic. Few were ever pardoned and released.

Then the sabotage, the escape, the wild goose chase.

The Thule Society goons had set up mana-laden orchids in a thousand classrooms across the country, false positives for Cormic's experiments. They'd adopted him, protected him. Red hadn't come close in three years of traipsing across the States. It had taken the conspicuous news items to alert Red to Cormic's true position. _New York City._ Red grimaced as he sipped his coffee. Distasteful, even for Thule.

Red shivered as he allowed himself to contemplate the death trap he'd walked into. _New York City._ He'd only been in the boroughs for a few hours, and he'd already felt three minor tremors. He needed to make this mission quick, before a full-blown manaquake hit. The city was renowned for them; its ley lines were unhappy, writing ropes of power. This was why the Mage Association never set up shop in the city, why few magi inhabited the area.

A bad upheaval could damage a magus's magic circuits like an earthquake damaged buildings, scrambling the foundations of a soul's connection to mystery. Even untrained magi, "accidental wizards" as Cormic called them, tended to flee the Big Apple. They never understood why, or what had happened, and usually associated the city with some negative or traumatic experience the details of which they couldn't put their fingers on.

When he realized he needed to go to New York City, he'd contacted his boss. No more prisons, he'd pleaded over a weak Scry the previous night. I kill him on sight. Clean and simple, and then I get out.

Like most of his requests, it was refused.

Lord El-Melloi II wanted Cormic alive, and had left Red to guess at his intentions. He could think of some potential reasons, one being the reason the Mage Association had initially left Cormic alone, only intervening when his first set of experiments in California had resulted in multiple deaths: they wanted to see where his research would lead. Given the increased scale this time—Cormic's orchids had stained an entire city block in magical runoff—there was no doubt that the higher ups would want notes and other loot from his atelier.

Add to that the Thule Society's involvement: maybe the new El-Melloi wanted to torture Cormic to find out more about what the society's plans. Lastly, of course, there was the simple possibility that the Clock Tower wanted to execute him publicly—well, as publicly as they did anything—as an example to other rogue magi.

All three were possibilities, but Red was hoping Cormic would gave him cause for lethal self-defense. The man was a threat, and dealing patiently with him in New York City was a foolish prospect.

The ley lines were raging.

Red wondered if this was normal activity, or if something extraordinary was going on, but he wasn't going to stick around to find out. He had one job.

He stood up and deposited his Starbucks cup in a nearby trash bin. He'd made it last, and his watch indicated that it was already eight. Time to end this hound and fox game with Cormic, once and for all. He left the park and passed by the old Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. He remembered the headlines like it was yesterday. This was never a kind city.

Red crossed Greene Street and stepped up to the building with the English Department sign. With a heavy pull he opened the door and walked inside, past the bulletin board and the directory. Up four flights of stairs and down a hall he found the office.

It _smelled_ like Cormic.

The entire room lay behind some heavy concealing magecraft. A Bounded Field that bore the signature of the Holy Church surrounded the door, and only with great effort was Red able to penetrate it. Most magi wouldn't have been able to get through at all; he wasn't one of the Clock Tower's most reliable trackers for nothing. He opened the door and stepped inside, leaving the door wide open in order to weak the room's magical integrity.

In the early morning light he could see the ritual circles still drawn all over the room, the seven relics on the tablecloth, mana traces from two deaths. One human male, around nineteen years old, poisoned. The other—Red looked from the corner in which the young man had died to stare at the window, still faintly shimmering with minotaur's blood.

Cormic's blood?

Red cast about, found the crumpled papers with the incantations. Red ballpen, Cormic's careful hand.

There were no orchids here, but there had been. Red could taste them. There was another scent heavy in the air: the Church's mending thaumaturgy. The room _had_ been destroyed, and repaired. Someone had taken the orchids. Red sighed. He'd need to recover them before leaving town, and he'd need backup. For them to be missing, for Cormic to be dead, for the Church to be involved, something _real_ ugly was going down. He touched the desk, flipped through its impressions the last day's events. Young women wrestling over orchids, a priest visiting twice, seven students binding to themselves seven Servants, Jerome Cormic's body exploding.

 _Fuck_.

He pulled a small crystal out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. It was already afternoon in London. Lord El-Melloi II answered his Scry immediately, flickering into the room, wearing his typical stern and permanently displeasured affect. The image projected by the crystal was grainy, but Red saw that he'd caught the professor in his office, at his desk, backlit by the gray London afternoon.

"What news, Redlan?"

"Boss, I don't know how or why, but Cormic's dead and there's a Grail War underway."

The lord furrowed his brow.

"Impossible."

"I know what I'm seeing, and you'd agree if you were here. There's summoning incantations written out. Seven relics, the room felt the appearance of seven Servants."

"Redlan. You're telling me that, that seven… seven Servants, heroic spirits, were summoned in one room?"

"Yes."

"Even for you, Redlan, this prank is childish." The new El-Melloi, despite being Red's superior, was at least a century younger. Red simmered at the suggestion. Was he known for pranks? He thought he came off too serious. "As for Cormic, did you kill him?"

"No, Boss. I found a great deal of residue. He lost a lot of blood, I think more than there even is in a human body."

"Another impossibility," said the lord. "Look, you may be enjoying this whimsical road trip across America, but I have matters to—"

"He wasn't human," Red said quickly. "The blood was his, but it's not human blood. Please, Boss, listen." He hated these pleas, but Lord El-Melloi II pretended to bea busy man, and the situation seemed dire. For all his groveling, he was granted a look, _hurry up and get to the point or I'm ending the communication_. Red nodded. "It's minotaur blood. Ley line activity is surging. Something's happening here, Boss. Manhattan is awash in magical activity. I think Cormic and his handlers in the Thule Society conspired to build a new Greater Grail System. Whatever they did, it's working. I need manpower. Serious magi ready to contain this."

Lord El-Melloi II absorbed this information in grim silence, and didn't respond. When his unblinking face didn't move for a minute, Red worried he'd lost the line.

"Boss?"

A blink, a deepened frown.

"Redla—no, Striker Voss. Swear you're telling the truth. Swear it on your family's crest."

"I swear it," said Red.

"Very well. One moment please." Lord El-Melloi II looked away from Red, off into the distance of his office in London. "Yes, Gray. Please clear my afternoon." He turned back to Red. "Striker Voss. I'm… pleased. I'm going to send you backup. Six magi to join you."

The number troubled Red. With him, that made seven.

Beneath the lord's professorial facade, the adventurer hungered.

"You're not planning—"

"Just so. I lost when I fought in Fuyuki City, and we had to shut that system down a couple years ago, but I'll be damned if we won't take advantage of this opportunity to reach the Root. You'll be collaborating, understand? Take the Servants for yourselves, and make them think you're in this for selfish gain. Pretend to fight amongst yourselves, but coordinate behind the scenes. You'll be in charge."

Red sweated profusely. He knew the young El-Melloi had participated in the Fuyuki Holy Grail War in the 90s before gaining his appointment and title in the Clock Tower, but who was to say this ritual was identical? It looked similar, but there were too many unknowns. And more than anything, this meant indefinite exposure to New York City's manaquakes.

"What about the existing Masters?"

"Convince them to surrender their Command Seals," Lord El-Melloi II said. "Use force if necessary. I'll have your team in New York tomorrow. Lie low and prepare until then. Research the Servants in play. If the Church is involved, figure out their angle, who's supervising, if anyone. Report to me if there are any more surprises."

"Like Cormic being a minotaur?"

"Like that," snorted Lord El-Melloi II, facade dropped entirely. "A minotaur, seriously?"

"With a green thumb."

The lord sat back, reclining in an imposing red armchair whose gravitas it seemed he was always straining to match. "You've done a good job, Redlan Voss. Three years on the road isn't easy. Now go, I have to call in some favors."

"Yes, Boss."

Red pocketed the crystal once young El-Melloi's face faded from view, then produced a black sack from inside his coat. Originally intended for Cormic's head, he repurposed it as a loot bag. Into it he scooped the golden string, the arrowhead, the dagger, the glass slipper, the pottery fragment, the wilted flower, the nail. Priceless artifacts, used as catalysts in the Grail's summons.

The relics would lose some of their value if his boss's plan paid off, but the British Museum would still want them.

 

# # #

 

"Mornin' Jass," Anatoli said, chipper, as his dorm room came into view.

Jass rubbed her eyes and sat up. She had enjoyed a mercifully peaceful sleep, drifting in her dreams on some sort of river as Saber played his lyre. Now that she was awake, the living nightmare of Bobsom's dead face resurfaced and she shuddered. Anatoli leaned over and patted her shoulder.

"Coffee?"

Jass nodded, then looked over at Raul as Anatoli prepared her drink.

He sat, still bound with duct tape, eyes closed, calm. She couldn't tell if he was asleep.

 _Anything of note while we slept?_ she asked Saber telepathically.

 _No_ , came the short reply.

"So I was thinking," began Anatoli, back turned to Jass, hovering over his electric kettle, "it's probably an unnecessary risk to split up and attend class. We should lay low till branch."

"Definitely," agreed Jass, though she was not excited about missing a day of peer editing for her biography term paper. "When we leave, what do we do with Raul?"

"That's the harder question." Anatoli turned back and handed Jass a cup. "Honestly, I have no idea what's best. If we leave him here, Berserker retrieves him. If we take him along, he could jeopardize our plan or even attack us."

"What about the priest?" asked Jass. "He said something about a sanctuary."

"Fuck, Jass."

"What's wrong?"

"I should have thought of that." Anatoli grimaced, sheepish, leaning back against the window. "I didn't sleep well. It's so obvious, that's clearly what we should do. I can't believe I didn't think of it."

"That's okay," laughed Jass.

"No, Jass, I mean, is it? I'm worried. If we lose our edge we could just die. Fall over gargling."

"Don't remind me."

"We're a mess, aren't we." Anatoli ran a hand through his hair, then patted his pockets. He always did this, checking that he had his wallet and keys. "Listen, if you need any fresh clothes or whatever, we can hit your place between dropping off Raul and heading over to Bushwick."

 _I do not think it a good idea to return to your home until the war is over,_ Saber communicated to Jass.

_Why not?_

_Call it intuition. I had a good deal of experience with ambushes in my lifetime. We should avoid going places our enemies expect us._

"That's impossible," Jass said out loud, then covered her mouth quickly.

Anatoli raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry, just thinking about strategy."

He shrugged.

 _It's absolutely impossible_ , thought Jass. _All our friends know we go to this meeting every Wednesday at six, and they know where it is. If Rey or Onson or whoever wants to ambush us there's no avoiding it._

 _Don't go to the meeting._ The tone of Saber's thought suggested that this was a painfully obvious course of action.

_We have to!_

The meeting was a must. It was the key to her agreement with Anatoli. They agreed that the Grail should be used to provide the greatest good to the greatest number of people, in the most sustainable way possible. They agreed on the form this should take, too: a complete change in the mode of production and in society.

It was Anatoli—a high school recruit to Socialist Alternative, already a young convert to revolutionary socialism as the best path toward a social and economic democracy that could free billions from food insecurity and rescue the planet from the burgeoning extinction event already underway as a result of unchecked industrial growth—who had initially suggested putting their plans through the party's democratic decision-making process.

Jass hadn't found reason to object.

She had come to the organization through Anatoli in September, and decided to join after extensive discussions. Some of the older members rubbed her the wrong way; they liked Leon Trotsky a bit too much, and she worried that for some of them she was just a token Latina to make the small group more diverse. But she believed in the cause, and the politics made sense, as did the organization's orientation toward struggles.

It had taken a few months for her to fully grasp democratic centralism, but Jass now considered herself well-versed in the tenet. With this understanding came an intuition that Anatoli was right. Though they agreed on their wish, they should submit it to democratic debate. They would defend themselves in the meantime, and continue trying to win over their friends, but they would not complete the Grail War until their organization had discussed the opportunities and weighed a few different strategies. It didn't make sense to Anatoli to keep these events secret anymore. He wanted to bring it up in their branch meeting, put forward a proposal to their branch, elevate it to the national and maybe even international organizations.

Socialist Alternative didn't have much in the way of precedents for handling heroic spirits and Holy Grail Wars, but it prided itself on being a flexible organization. The elected leadership could make the final decision about what the exact wording of the wish would be. Other comrades could suggest strategies for keeping Jass and Anatoli safe, and the discussion might even produce ideas for generating mana to sustain Saber and Lancer, keeping them in fighting shape longer.

The first step in this process was to show up to the weekly meeting of their local branch as normal. Anatoli, on the branch committee, assured Jass he'd already made room on the agenda.

_No, Saber, we have to go. It's the right thing to do._

_I shan't physically stop you,_ he replied, _but we must be extremely cautious_.

_We'll be careful as we can be. We'll have you and Lancer nearby at all times, hell, we can wear disguises._

_That would be most wise_ , replied Saber.

"So," said Anatoli, "what should we do while we wait? We have about seven hours to kill." He had finished his own coffee, and was looking out the window, watching the people milling about on University Place. The police barricades were gone and the crowds flowed rapidly as students went to and from class. "Uno?"

Jass chuckled.

"Sure."

 

# # #

 

The door to the sanctuary opened, and Onson scrambled up from where he'd lain on the pew for what now felt like an eternity. He ached all over. He'd listened with his eyes shut as Hubert had called his friends one after the next, informing them about how the Grail War was supposed to go. Seven Masters, seven Servants, Throne of Heroes, mana one way, mana another way, Command Seals, relics, summoning, binding, fighting. After the last call, intended for Anatoli but catching Jass and Raul as well, the priest had retreated into a side room for the night, and Onson had nodded off uneasily, vaguely aware that he was still connected to Assassin.

In the middle of the night, she'd awoken him telepathically, and he'd used his two remaining Command Seals to force her into a fight. Their connection had been static since, and he'd tossed and turned well into the day. He'd spent hours wondering if she'd won or lost, and also interrogating himself: did he want her to win? To lose?

Now he had more immediate matters to attend to.

Jass and Anatoli stood in the entry to the sanctuary, Raul in front of them, the latter unnaturally quiet, with his eyes downcast. Jass and Anatoli were wearing heavy clothes, with hooded coats and sunglasses, which they removed only upon closing the door behind them.

"Guys!" cried Onson, "I'm so glad you're safe!"

"Didn't get my texts, Sonion?" asked Jass, the nickname more a challenge than a reassurance. Anatoli guided Raul to sit on a pew.

"No reception," Onson said, producing his phone. "The battery's out, too."

Jass rolled her eyes. "Of all the nights for everyone to let their phones die." She produced a small package from her coat pocket and chucked it at Onson. A new cellphone charger. Onson caught it, nodded, and began scanning for an outlet.

"How have you been faring?"

"Bobsom—" Jass started, then choked on what might have become profanity, but also might have just been a sob. "Not well."

"What about Rey and Karli?"

"Haven't seen them or heard from them. Have you been here long?"

"All night," said Onson. "As of about nine in the evening, when the priest was contacting all of you, the others were still alive, but ... weird."

"Weird is a word for it," said Anatoli, pointing to Raul, who still said nothing, did nothing. He sat on the pew like a wooden puppet, disinterested in the prospect of real boyhood.

"Is he okay?" Onson asked. "Raul?"

"His Servant, Berserker, messed with his mind," said Jass. "I half expected him to attack us again while we were on our way here. Hey, where's that priest? Hubert or whatever?"

"I'm here, my children!" Beaming, Hubert emerged and strode down the aisle, robes swishing.

"He'll be safe here?" Anatoli asked, pointing to Raul.

"Of course," said Hubert. "As long as he's a Master, he won't be touched. Where's his Servant?"

"We don't know." Jass turned to the door. "You'll make sure he's safe until he comes to his senses? We have somewhere to be."

"Where are you going?" asked Onson. "You should stay here. We should all stay here. Let our Servants battle it out while we stay safe. I don't want—"

"Shut up, you insufferable _prick_ ," cut in Raul. Jass turned back quickly, and even Anatoli looked startled. "You killed Bobsom and now you hide here, thinking yourself safe in this villain's den?" He spat on the floor. "Fuck your sanctuary, priest. I want nothing to do with you scum."

"Raul, buddy, scum is a strong word," said Anatoli quietly, urgently.

Hubert smiled with that sickening smugness only found on the right wing. "Don't worry, kids. I'm a professional. Defending my people's cultural heritage and enforcing the rules of the Grail War are two separate areas of my life, and I keep them that way."

Anatoli put a hand on Raul's shoulder, and beckoned Onson to approach. "Listen guys, after this is all over, we can punch this asshole or whatever, but for now, he knows stuff we don't and might be able to get us through this without anymore casualties."

"Was it you?"

Everyone turned to look at Jass. She hadn't moved since Raul's outburst.

"Saber told me it was you, Sonion. Raul's beside himself, but I need confirmation. Was it you?"

Her voice was steady, her body still.

"It was Assassin," Onson said softly. "I—Jass, this may be worthless to you, but I did not know what was happening. I passed out, I woke up here, I haven't left. I ordered Assassin on a suicide mission. I'm trying to end this."

"A suicide mission?"

"To fight a Servant she couldn't beat," he said.

"Clearly not any of ours," added Anatoli.

"Listen to me closely, Sonion." Jass stepped up to him, footfalls heavy on the carpet. She gazed deep into Onson's eyes. Her face was the picture of torment. They had all loved each other, and he felt he'd lost something important when Bobsom died. Now he understood that his pain was a fraction of Jass's. "If something happens to Rey, or to Karli, and someone tells me, oh, Jass—" her voice was crescendoing, her speech growing more rapid— "Jass, it _wasn't_ Onson, it was _Assassin_ , let me tell—oh, _FUCK IT!_ " And she punched him square in the jaw.

He staggered back, eyes watering.

"It'll be a knife in that hand."

"Jass!" yelled Anatoli, jumping behind her and grabbing her wrist. "This is crazy, Jass. It's no more Onson's fault than it is mine, or any of ours. We all chose to play."

"That's what I tried telling this guy," Hubert said, gesturing toward Onson.

"Oh fuck you," said Anatoli.

"Listen to yourselves," cackled Raul. "What's a man gotta do to get some peace and quiet?"

Onson stepped back and slumped onto the nearest bench.

"I accept the blame," he said, staring at the floor. "Our love for Jerry got the better of me, but that doesn't excuse anything. If I hadn't said those words, Bobsom might be alive. I don't want forgiveness, that won't make things right. I don't know how to make things right."

"We do," said Jass, fists clenched at her sides.

"Yeah, buddy," said Anatoli, putting his hands in his pockets. "We'll take care of everything." He stepped over to Onson and leaned over, whispering quickly in his ear. "Listen. Just in case your Assassin is still out there and is willing to cooperate, Jass and I are working on a solution that could please everyone. It won't matter who gets the Grail, but don't tell the Nazi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


	14. In the Labyrinth :: G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerry's gears turn.

In the Labyrinth

G

October 13

 

 

Jerry couldn't put his finger on it, but he wanted Hubert to visit.

He didn't _want_ Hubert to visit, of course. The less he dealt with the man the better. There had never been any illusions regarding the man's political alignment. His haircut, smirk, and casual use of racial slurs hadn't informed Jerry of anything. It had all been there on the surface, explicit in the terms for his release from the Clock Tower. The Thule Society had approached Jerry, imprisoned deep beneath London, and offered him freedom in exchange for service to their order. That the order was still active in the 21st century shocked Jerry, but the choice had been simple. He had needed freedom.

Hubert had been among those involved in springing Jerry: a cell of the Thule Society under the command of an Irish magus named Waters. She stared up at Jerry from the Guardian on his desk. A politician and demagogue, she had just initiated a _rightward_ split from UKIP. The whole business made his skin crawl.

Jerry's goal before wizard prison had been the emancipation of all life through the cultivation of positive mana feedback loops. He'd grown his orchids, developed his students in experiment after experiment in an effort to beat back entropy. Now his efforts were being diverted to constitute a Holy Grail for Nazis.

Every day that went by without contact from his handlers was a day he could pretend he was still gardening for the greater good. All too often, those days were ruined by a phone call.

So why did he want Hubert to visit? Was it to see the orchids in person for once?

Jerry drummed his fingers on his desk, humming as his proteges went about their studies around him. Brief images flashed in his mind. High walls, twisting corridors, a severed string. Something deep inside his person roared silently.

He couldn't figure it out, so he put it out of his mind and focused on the orchidsong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Jerry is bad in a lot of ways, but let's remember his introspective admissions from the first chapter: he's not in control. And that loss of control isn't only evidenced in his handling by Hubert's secret society; it runs much deeper. He's only briefly aware of his own essence, in flashes here and there. None of this to excuse him. But it may be important :3


	15. 08 - Agora in Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jass and Anatoli bring the Grail War to their branch of Socialist Alternative.

Jass had always been a fighter. Since Samentha in the second grade. She didn't especially celebrate this. She knew throwing punches had a limited usefulness. That the costs of violence could be pretty severe. She had no illusions that hitting the people who crossed her would solve all her problems. Still she derived something from it.

There were two fires in her, one of rage and one of justice. A good punch could quench the former and stoke the latter. All her life she had balanced these, turning rage into cathartic violence. And this had, of course, brought its own complications and problems. She was older than most of her peers; suspensions in middle school had cost her a year's advancement. But she had never faced consequences so serious that she needed to radically change her life. No juvie. And while her mom had despaired at her fighting ways, her abuela had praised her sense of justice, her bravery.

The fire and the need for violence burned in her no brighter at any point than in the instant she saw Onson's sorry face in the basement of the Basilica of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral. Faintly illuminated by candles, disheveled, he had groveled.

Her rage filled her being, an oil fire blanketing her mana pool. One good blow would do her so much good.

Punching Onson didn't help anything.

Her hand hurt like hell, and Anatoli, whom she loved deeply, clearly thought less of her. He moved to restrain her. Her fires turned cold. Worst of all was Onson's face. He staggered back and clutched at it, but didn't protest. Nothing in his face said that he didn't deserve the punch. She didn't hear what he said after, her ears buzzing as the adrenaline pumped through her body, but he just looked cowed. Sorry. Sorry for something that she knew, deep down, wasn't even his fault.

While Anatoli told Onson their plan, she stood by the door, shoulders hunched slightly forward and head hanging an inch. Finally it was time to go, and Anatoli followed her out and up into the Manhattan evening.

They walked the eight minutes to the J, Jass's knuckles smarting in the brisk winds. Anatoli said nothing as they went, which Jass appreciated. She needed to center herself, prepare mentally for the branch discussion on the April Theses, for the point later in the agenda in which she and Anatoli would attempt to present the situation with the Grail War to their comrades.

They descended into the station and squeezed into a train car, standing room only.

_Lucky you don't take up space like this_ , she thought to Saber.

_This is awkward_ , he replied. _Were I forced to materialize and protect you it, would displace and injure dozens of innocents. I wish we were not doing this._

_It's crucial_ , was all Jass thought back to him, opting not to criticize him for being too insistent. She swayed back and forth slightly as the train car did, hoping that her comrades would take the information well. Without evidence, everything she and Anatoli had to say would sound like nonsense. But they had evidence. Saber and Lancer could materialize on command. That alone should convince anyone that magic was real. Of course, materializing in front of a full coffee shop would be a bit much. So Jass had a recording on her phone of their Servants appearing and disappearing, of Saber producing and hiding his sword. If the comrades thought the video was a hoax, Saber could speak while immaterial, producing a disembodied voice. And if that wasn't enough, they could all go back to her apartment, or Anatoli's room, crowd in, see the magic happen before their eyes.

Yeah, the history of the Russian Revolution a hundred years earlier—the single biggest event in the history of her class, she knew—was far from her mind. She'd do some more reading later, bone up on Lenin's ultimatum and the reorientation of the Bolsheviks. Her mind was irretrievably focused on the Grail.

"Jass, I'm not feeling so good."

It was only six stops on the subway, but by the fourth, when Anatoli spoke up, Jass was also feeling it. Maybe there was a circulation problem on the train. The air felt heavy. Jass was tired; she didn't think she'd be able to stay straight if she weren't boxed in all sides by other standers. And by the looks of it, most of the car was feeling the same thing. Everywhere there were droopy eyelids, slack jaws, pallid faces.

When the train arrived at Myrtle Ave and Jass weakly flung herself onto the platform, three of the other riders were passed out in their seats. Someone was calling for medics.

"What the fuck was that?" she asked, pulling herself up the stairs toward the surface, gasping for breath. She felt better with every step away from the platform, but still a far cry from good.

"Maybe poor ventilation?" Anatoli suggested, faring no better by the look of him.

Jass emerged into blissfully fresh air, and shrugged. "MTA's gonna have a shitstorm on their hands."

"No kidding," said Anatoli. "First the elevator, then the water main, now this."

They ambled the three blocks to Little Skips and entered the coffee shop.

Inside, they found most of their comrades already assembled, sitting on chairs and tables, forming a rough circle around an old bearded man in what looked like a toga. Some song from the 90s played quietly over a radio behind the counter. "Swallow my pride, choke on the rinds, leave me empty inside..." The man sat low on an upturned ice bucket, knees above his waist, hunched forward slightly, a gleam in his eyes. The shop was largely empty aside from the Socialist Alternative presence, a couple other patrons and one barista in evidence.

"Hey guys!" said Anatoli, smiling and taking a seat in the circle. He turned to Pam, at his right. "Who's this?"

Pam, a nurse and long-time member of the Bushwick branch, didn't respond to Anatoli at all.

"Don't mind me," said the old man, looking up and smiling."Hold on a moment, okay?"

He turned his attention back to the comrades, most of them in red Socialist Alternative t-shirts and various styles of jeans.

"Henry, was it?" he asked, addressing one of the younger members.

Henry nodded back with an almost angry vigor. Jass saw Anatoli's worried look, and, already hesitant, didn't sit down. She noticed herself tense, fists clenched.

"Henry, can you explain to me why Leninism doesn't necessarily lead to Stalinism?"

Henry shook his head with equal vigor, shocking Jass. He'd just written a lengthy Facebook post, maybe a week ago, touching on the exact subject. The mainstream media was full of nonsense about "Leninists" in the White House, Steve Bannon and Trump, and some of SA's more youthful members were taking to the internet to defend the label. Henry, a CUNY student who'd headed up model UN in high school, was a gifted debater. Why would he demur now?

"Why not?" asked the old man.

"Society is Stalinism," Henry replied, spitting the words. "Long as there's scarcity, there's breadlines. Capitalist, communist, people starve."

"My!" exclaimed the old man. "That's awful DARK, Henry! But don't despair! Scarcity is probably just a capitalist construct, right?"

"Wrong," said Linda, an NYU professor. Same department as Jerry, actually. Jass hadn't taken classes with her, but Karli and Rey had her for one of their survey classes. "The planet's dying. Our time is running out." She looked furious.

"Guys, what's going on here?" asked Anatoli.

The old man turned back to him. "Hold your horses. We're almost done."

"Done?"

"Aren't we?" the man asked the gathered socialists. They nodded slowly. The two other cafe customers nodded from the periphery.

"Is this the Twilight Zone?" asked Jass. "Henry? Linda? Come on, when did you become trolls?"

"Trolls?" asked the old man. His eyes rolled backward and he took his chin in his hand. Then he closed his eyes. When he opened them ten seconds later, he looked straight at Jass and smiled. "Ah yes, sophomores. Don't worry. Plato's not here today. Real talk ONLY."

_I think we need to go, Master_. Saber's urgent thought cut across the response Jass was brewing.

Why?

Besides the prompted comments from Linda and Henry, the rest of the branch remained silent, with grim faces. It clicked. Raul. The mind-altering enchantment.

"Let's go," she whispered to Anatoli.

"Why?" he asked back, hissing.

"Berserker," she fired back.

Anatoli nodded, standing. "Obviously." _Obviously?_ "But we can't leave our comrades like this."

"You knew?"

He nodded again. "He's cleaned up a bit and he's talking, but that's the guy who charged into the room last night." Jass hadn't gotten a good view of him before Saber had pushed the fight into the hallway. Berserker nodded respectfully. "I think it's time we stop worrying about making a scene."

_He's right, Master._

"Fine," said Jass.

As if on cue, Saber and Lancer burst into the room. Saber held Goliath's sword; Lancer was dual-wielding, boarding axe and pistol. Anatoli and Jass quickly moved to push their friends out of the way as their Servants charged forward. Berserker calmly stood, stick suddenly in hand, and with two fluid motions knocked the other Servants onto their asses.

He kicked the ice bucket out of the way and sat back down, cross-legged on the floor, as Saber and Lancer sprung to their feet to renew their assault.

"You think you hate me," he said, steadily, time seeming to slow as he spoke, "but I'm just an animal, here briefly, trying to enjoy the world as it exists. If you must hate something, you should hate your ideas about the world."

As the other Servants crashed into him, his grin widened.

"Paradoxa: Reversal of Norms."

A brilliant orange shell seemed to envelope him, and Saber's sword glanced off harmlessly. Lancer's axe, too. Bullets from her revolver ricocheted into the bar. Jass backed away. Saber had explained that the thing about the Berserker class was that it didn't do defense. Berserkers didn't do magecraft, they didn't do sabotage. All Berserkers had but one method: charging forward with reckless abandon. They won fights through sheer strength, brawn before brains.

Jass didn't presume to understand magecraft, or Servant classes, or much of what was going on at all.

But as Saber and Lancer jumped back from the shiny orange field enveloping Berserker, she'd made one assumption faster than Saber could confirm it telepathically:

Berserker wasn't Berserker anymore.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said, still seated. "I am Diogenes of the World, Servant of the Caster class. I regret that we were unable to speak last time we met, but tricky it is to communicate meaningfully with children so corrupted by society's decadence."

"What did you do to our friends?" asked Anatoli.

"Do? Nothing special," laughed the man. "I merely barked a little, and showed them the fallacies to which they previously clung."

Suddenly Pam, still nearest Anatoli, turned on him and punched him just below his rib cage. He flew back, bones cracking as he hit the wall. In a flash, the other comrades and customers were charging him and Jass. With a swing of the flat of his mighty blade, Saber pushed them back.

"What the fuck?!" Jass cried as Lancer's gun fired and Pam fell to the floor, blood trickling from her head.

She ran over to Anatoli, who lay in a daze, clutching his ribs.

"I think I'm finished, Jass," he murmured.

"Run, Master," ordered Saber. "These aren't your friends anymore." He swung left and right, trying to bat off the charging socialists. "I'm holding back so as not to kill them, for your sake, but they're barely human."

Indeed, they bristled with fur.

_Werewolves?_ she asked Saber.

_No,_ Master. _Common dogs._

Jass was about to flee, against her heart, heeding Saber's advice. She didn't want to leave Anatoli. She didn't want to leave Henry or Pam or Linda, any of her friends, her comrades. But she was of no use here. She couldn't save Anatoli, she couldn't even defend herself. But just as she was about to leave, she looked back to the center of the room. Berserker-turned-Caster lay down in the middle of the room, hands behind his head, a maddeningly peaceful smile on his face.

The fire of rage inside her subsumed the fire of justice, consumed her entire body. She was on fire.

Jass burned.

Pain flooded her system as her soul exploded in flames, and then those flames wreathed her before blasting outward, shooting toward her comrades. One fireball hit Henry between the eyes, another caught Glenn in the belly. Cinders scattered about the floor as one by one she immolated her comrades, uncontrollably. Little Skips became a little inferno. The furniture caught; bottles of alcohol at the counter exploded. Everywhere the fire raged, except inside the orange barrier around Berserker.

The flames receded along with the pain in her soul, and Jass fell to her knees. What the fuck had she done? Her friends! The shop! Charred corpses littered the room. Her fault, her doing. No, no, no—she didn't even KNOW she could do that! _Fuck_ , she thought, slamming a burning fist into the floor, _how was that different from Onson_?

And Anatoli?

She turned back quickly to see he was gone.

"Lancer?"

"Took Anatoli and fled," said Saber, untouched by the flames, standing a couple feet from Jass where she knelt. "I thought you weren't a magus?"

"I'm not," she insisted, even as sparks swirled around her hands.

"If you weren't before, you are now," said Saber. His tone left no room for argument. "A small consolation in the face of the horrible disadvantage at which we now find ourselves."

Disadvantage?

The charred corpses were standing, ash falling away from their bodies. They lived still. Their eyes were white fire and their muscles bulged through their clothing.

"How?" she croaked, pushing herself uneasily to her feet.

"We should still flee," Saber insisted. "Talk later."

Jass took one look at Henry, fanged mouth salivating, and then she turned and fled the shop, commanding Saber to follow her in spirit form. She ran the whole way back to Hubert's sanctuary, leaving small puddles of molten cement in her wake, scorch marks on the Brooklyn bridge.

"Do not blame yourself, Master," Saber said as she finally slowed down, taking the worn stone stairs to the cathedral basement carefully. "We couldn't calculate for that."

They opened the door to the sanctuary and found Onson and Hubert tending to a battered-looking Anatoli. He lay on the floor, clothes in tatters, black and blue in the chest, blood smeared on his face and arms. Hubert was casting some kind of spell as Onson wiped up blood with a wet towel. Raul lounged in a corner, indifferent.

"What happened?" Onson asked, looking up at Jass with tears in his eyes.

Saber answered for her, still immaterial.

"Berserker, whose true name is Diogenes the Cynic, seems to have changed classes to Caster after casting off his Mad Enhancement."

"Mad Enhancement?" asked Jass, panting.

Hubert finished casting his spell, wiped his hands on his robes, and stood. "Mad Enhancement is the trademark of the Berserker class," he said. He raised his hands. "Don't worry, Dustice will live. Anyway, Mad Enhancement. It trades a Servant's sanity for power. Normally this makes them very hard to control, but incredibly strong in combat."

"And he just... got rid of it?"

"Not exactly," said Saber. "If I'm right, the incantation he spoke, Paradoxa, is his Noble Phantasm, a concentrated form of the weak Bounded Field I felt earlier. The magecraft responsible for his Master's condition. I believe that Diogenes fully transferred his Mad Enhancement to the people around him. This would explain their massive strength and resilience." Then telepathically to Jass, saving the secret: _even to your flame_.

"Fascinating," said Hubert. "That would explain some things."

"Some things?" asked Jass.

"Yeah," said Hubert, "some things."

"What things, exactly?"

Hubert didn't reply. He couldn't help his smug grin, Jass assumed. Made him look like a blonder Richard Spencer. And Richard Spencer's face was only good for one thing.

_Saber_ , Jass thought, _I want to know what's on his mind. I don't trust him_.

_Good_ , replied Saber. _Shall I rough him up?_

_Are there rules against that? Will we be disqualified?_

_He might fight back. He's a magus._

_It would be one against three. You, Lancer, me._

_It is well that you have awakened your Magic Circuits, Master, but can you control them? You have no training, no experience in a fight between magi. You shouldn't involve yourself._

_Actually, I'm the only one who should get involved, she argued. He can't hurt me, I'm a Master in his sanctuary._

_I'll be right behind you_ , thought Saber, with no further argument.

Then she stepped up to Hubert, grabbed him by his collar, and punched him. His cheek sizzled slightly where she hit him. He winced, but did not say anything or cry.

"Tell me," she hissed in his face. "What things does this explain, exactly?"

She pulled her fist back, ready to punch again.

"Ms. Bonzalez," Hubert said calmly, looking her straight in the eye. "You want to unhand me."

"Or what?" she sneered. "I'm safe here, right?"

"So long as you're a Master participating in the Grail War," Hubert said, words long and cold. "You _do_ have a Servant, right?"

"Of course. Saber!" called Jass. _Materialize!_

Nothing happened. She looked away from Hubert, back to where she expected to see Saber. Saber? She looked back to her hand at Hubert's neck. Her Command Seals were moving, as if alive, crawling over her fingers and onto his neck. She let go with a yelp and jumped back. Her fingers were red with two of the marks, but one had already transferred to Hubert, taken up residence in his light stubble.

_Apologies, Master_ , thought Saber, back in Jass's mind. _I couldn't feel you for a moment._

"Don't threaten me," Hubert said simply. "Your own safety might not be your top priority, but you seem to care a great deal for your friends." He pointed an index finger at Onson, still kneeling over Anatoli. "Assassin died last night. No need for Mr. Sweemey to follow her, right?"

"You wouldn't," whispered Jass.

He smiled. "I need one word."

"And an index finger," spat Lancer, materializing behind him and severing his hand with her axe.

"FUCK!" he yowled, clutching his stump and staggering backward. Blood gushed from the wound, staining his robes.

The sight turned Jass's stomach slightly, but she felt she had to act quickly. She lunged forward, both with her body and her soul, and a jet of fire from her hand cauterized Hubert's wrist, singing his sleeve and other hand.

She felt Onson's incredulous stare. The temptation to hurt Hubert more was great, but she kept her distance and held back her flames as best she could. He was valuable alive.

"Here's how this is going to work," Lancer said, revolver to the back of Hubert's head. "You are going to give my Master the Command Seal you stole from Saber's Master. You are going to answer the woman's questions. When we are done interrogating you, we will decide what's to be done with you next. You won't make sudden movements. You won't make threats. Your life is guaranteed if you cooperate. Things can get a lot worse for you."

Hubert nodded, wincing, arms above his head.

"On your knees now, slowly."

This was hard for him. He clearly wasn't in the best shape, and lacked the muscle control to kneel slowly. He trembled as he descended to Anatoli's level. Lancer's gun never strayed more than an inch from the back of his head.

"Hand on my Master's forehead now," Lancer commanded, "five fingers extended, palm first. Gently."

Hubert did as commanded, and then Jass watched as the small red sheep of her lost Command Seal sauntered down Hubert's neck, disappearing under his robes before emerging on the back of his hand. It skipped a little as it landed on Anatoli's forehead.

"Up," grunted Lancer. "Slowly."

The priest heaved himself into a standing position and then, still wincing with pain, obeyed Lancer's orders to seat himself on one of the pews.

"I was wondering about Berserker," he said, voice ragged, without any further prompting, "because of these. May I?" After Lancer nodded, he rolled up the sleeve above his stump. His arm was covered in tiny red dog tattoos. "Command Seals," he explained. "Forty-five new ones, for fifteen new Servants. Berserkers."

"You're their Master?" asked Jass.

"I'm the supervisor," he said. "When the Grail revokes a Master's Seals, or issues new Seals, mid-war, they sit on my body. I might be able to use them but I don't know. I imagine I am supposed to find fifteen new Masters to join the war."

"And if we sever your arm?"

"I honestly don't know," said Hubert. "There's a lot I don't know. I'm in over my head."

It was hard to believe him, given how haughty he had seemed just minutes earlier. Jass sat down on the back of another pew, facing Hubert. This was going to take a while.

"Tell me everything," she said. "Absolutely everything you know about this Grail War."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ridiculously happy with Diogenes. :)
> 
> And I'm glad to deliver some comeuppance to Hubert at long last!
> 
> Nothing goes to plan in a Grail War, Jass is learning.


	16. In the Labyrinth :: H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karli shares memes with her friends.

In the Labyrinth

H

October 24

 

 

"Check this one out." Karli handed her phone to Raul.

He laughed.

"What's up?" asked Jass, looking up from her food writing reader.

Karli had discovered trolley problem memes.

"The one problem," Raul said, wiping tears from his eyes as he recovered, "is the ones about pushing the guy off the bridge. Ethics can be humorous without fat-shaming."

Jerry nodded as he hummed at his desk.

Karli smiled wistfully. "My art history prof was saying the other day, something like, every medium has its, what was it, dark practitioners?" She took her phone back and kept scrolling through images of stick figures pulling levers.

"So what would you do, Karli?" Onson had given up on his math problem. He stood behind Raul and Karli, peering over their shoulders at the memes.

"What do you mean?"

"With the lever. Pull? Leave alone?"

"Good question. What _would_ I—you know, I think I'd just be, like, paralyzed with fear, and the enormity of the choice."

"A lot of these memes are mocking the don't pull crowd, this sarcastic strawman of 'pulling the lever is murder,'" Raul chimed in. "But I think Karli's got the right of it."

"That's not the point."

The students looked up, surprised. Jerry wasn't humming.

"What do you mean?"

"The Trolley Problem isn't about what a flesh and blood human would do in the moment, under pressure. It's about what you think is the proper course of action." Jerry sat back, put his hands behind his head. "How would you want someone to act in that situation? How would you _hope_ to act in that situation?"

Karli closed Facebook on her phone. For her, the point was the memes, the pictures of Immanuel Kant or Slavoj Žižek tied to the rails.

But Onson didn't get that. He wanted answers.

"So Jerry," he asked, "what would you do?"

Jerry furrowed his brow, thinking. Then he sat forward again, picked up his red pen, shuffled some papers around on his desk. "For me, the numbers one and five don't mean much. I'd need the problem refigured to be about mana."

"Cop out," Raul laughed. "Say every person involved has the same amount of mana."

"Hm." Jerry squinted, looked around the room. "It's more complicated than that. It's not just amounts, it's character. How healthy is the soul? Ah, okay, you'll say 'assume they're all the same.' Absurdity of the premise aside, I suppose I'd pull the lever in a heartbeat."

As Onson and Raul nodded, Karli excused herself to go to class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trolley Problem memes are great, and most arguments about utilitarianism devolve into useless overstatement.


	17. 09 - Catachresis, Apologia, and God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karli and Caster prepare and strategize. Hubert languishes in his basement. Raul takes unexpected action.

Even as he drained one of their four orchids of its mana and used the resulting magical energy to begin building, Caster insisted he had no special powers. Karli wanted to learn more about what he could do, the better to make a plan for winning the war. At first she had assumed that he could simply do everything that it said he could do in the Bible, but, as he pointed out, there were dozens of differing accounts of his life and deeds. And, he said, none too pleased, some of those guys were just making things up. _Calling themselves my apostles and cashing in on my name._ So the legends were unreliable, and so was the only person who offered information, the smug priest Hubert. He'd lied to her, and now she was on her own with the magical stonemason who refused credit for any miracle, however small.

Around noon on Wednesday, the day after the Holy Grail War started, he was building a temple at miniature scale, joining materials with the slightest touch of a glowing hand.

"What's that?" Karli had asked the first time he used magecraft.

"A miracle," he had replied. "The will of God."

And so his line had obstinately remained. Being summoned into the Caster class was some kind of mistake. He had no skill with magecraft. All he could do was believe.

"So you just believed that God would provide an endless stream of stone to protect us from Rider last night?"

"The pious are untouchable," had been his reply.

"You died on a cross," Karli had reminded him.

"Did I?" he had asked, looking up from the stone he was shaping. "You would do well to listen closely. Without his will I am nothing. Without his will you are nothing. We will lose. You will die."

Now the sun was setting and he was putting the finishing touches on his temple, a semi circle of stairs ringing away from the entrance.

"What does this do?" Karli asked.

"It is the home of God," he said.

"Meaning?"

"Exactly just that. I wonder if he's home." Caster knelt in front of the small building he had created in the middle of Karli's dorm room floor. "Adonai, Cause of Everything, do you enjoy your temple on this day?"

For just a moment Karli thought the image funny, and then the world blurred and spun and she felt like she was being shot through a vacuum tube. A brief blackness was followed by the feeling of a hard wooden object under butt, stone beneath her feet. She sat in a great hall constructed of white and yellow stone. All around her, coals burned bright in braziers. Something smelled of good cooking and she took a deep whiff. She stood slowly. She'd been sitting on a gilded chest, fitted with rods for carrying. On either side of her seat, golden harpies kneeled, wing tips touching behind where her back had been.

She'd seen enough art and movies to know that this was the Ark of the Covenant.

"Caster?" she asked, her voice echoing. She was alone.

"Huh, that's weird." The voice boomed through the hall, almost deafening Karli. It seemed to come from outside.

"Is someone there?" she asked, cautiously tip-toeing toward the giant door at the end of the hall.

"Most puzzling."

Karli reached the exit and looked out into a giant's home. All around her was furniture with legs thicker than her body. "What happened?" she asked aloud, marveling at her new environs. After almost a minute of gazing around in wonder it clicked. This was a giant copy of her own dorm room. Kneeling in front of her, towering, was Caster, eyes each about her size, staring back at her with consternation.

"Caster?"

"Never before has my faith been so tested," he boomed back. "I built a replica of the home of God, to summon some angel or other manifestation, but when I called for my Master you disappeared and have reemerged, resized to fit the temple."

"How do I get back?" Karli asked. "Though this might be fun for a few hours."

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?" she called up to Caster. She wondered if her voice appeared as tiny to Caster as her body. She shouted as she would to someone distant. "You did this to me."

"How could I do this?" he asked back. "I am but a believer. I've never encountered this miracle before. I have to assume there's some purpose to it, though. Perhaps only as a test to me, but perhaps there is deeper meaning."

"Come ON," Karli yelled. "Enough with this. You built the temple, with magic, and you practiced some kind of incantation, and asked for Adonai, your Master, to answer. Guess what? Here I am! Your Master. You are Caster. Our goal is the Grail. Did you or did you not accept my contract?"

"I did," said Caster simply. His face was harder to read now that it was so many times larger than Karli's entire body.

Karli put her hands on her hips, trying to be imposing despite her size and position.

"Then use your magecraft to fix my size, and we can have a lengthy conversation about your abilities. We'll come up with a strategy to win the war, preferably one that doesn't involve anymore of my friends dying. And then we'll execute the strategy and we'll win"—she realized she was getting carried away, but it felt so good to be calling the shots after a day and a half of confusion and fear—"because I got incredibly lucky, and my Servant in this war is Jesus FUCKING Christ."

"I'd rather—" he started.

"Unshrink me," Karli commanded.

"Yes, Master."

Caster put one hand over his face as he used his other to trace patterns in the air around Karli. Rainbow glitter surrounded her, and then she was standing tall, looking down on the kneeling Servant.

"Thank you, Caster," she said. "I'm glad we're on the same page finally."

He said nothing as he uncovered his face. Slowly he raised it to look at Karli, his expression unreadable. His silence and lethargy of movement unnerved Karli, but eventually she decided he was waiting for her to ask questions about his powers, so she did.

Caster was a wizard without equal in the Age of Men, capable of magecraft unheard of since the gods and true magic all but vanished from the world. Life and death were meaningless to him. He could repair anything, and because he could repair anything, he knew how to unmake it. Construction materials—masonry, lumber, metals—were his favorite foci. He could manipulate them however he liked, and he could generate them out of thin air if needed, though that took considerably more magical energy. Bodies were just another kind of building to him, their materials only slightly harder for him to manage.

He answered each question with as few words as possible, curt and concise.

"I really did luck out," Karli laughed. "What else can you do?"

His divinity was low-rank, he explained, not being the sole son of any particularly unique deity but rather being one expression of a common belief in Antiquity that a new prophet would come to save people from their own sins. Still, he was invulnerable to many kinds of attacks, including low-ranked Noble Phantasms, and he asserted that even if he fell in battle, so long as Karli had enough mana on hand, he could be revived.

Caster's countenance darkened as the conversation-turned-interrogation continued. By the time all of Karli's curiosities around his powers were answered, he looked dejected, almost despairing.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

This question he did not answer. He remained still, kneeling, until Karli finally shrugged and told him he could dematerialize whenever he wanted. Instantly he was gone, and Karli was left in her darkened dorm room, feeling like she had a good shot at the Grail War and her wish, but had maybe unintentionally done something bad to Caster.

 

# # #

 

The sanctuary was dark. As a parting gift, Lancer had destroyed the candle-covered altar. Now Hubert sat alone in silence. The kids were all gone, as were their Servants. After extracting as much information as they wanted, they had effectively told Hubert to fuck off. Of course, the information they'd extracted wasn't worth much. Without any truth-compelling magecraft, their interrogation was no different from mundane torture: good at making someone talk, not good at making that talk meaningful. In a bitter rage Hubert had intentionally lied as much as possible. They didn't know about the society, didn't know about the minotaur, didn't know that the previous Greater Grail system in Fuyuki City had been dismantled due to its corrupted and destructive nature. Of course, Hubert himself didn't know whether the new Grail system carried the flaws of the old, but he wasn't about to give those children any good-natured warnings. He had explained that all priests of the Holy Church had access to magecraft, and that they were all in on the plot that had resulted in the Grail War. Maybe they'd go rough up some civilians. Maybe they'd get lucky and hit some actual operatives of the Church. Either way Hubert was amused, and he was leaning on that amusement to distract from his pain and frustration.

He couldn't do anything else.

They'd broken his mirror. They'd raided his back room and destroyed every magical implement he owned. They'd severed his arm with the new Berserker command seals. Then they'd tied him up and gagged him. Disconnected from his colleagues, he had no way to call for help. At some point he would need to go outside just to eat, to survive, yet he was stuck.

Maybe he would die here, taken down at the highest point in his career, a modern-day Icarus. He didn't cherish the thought, but death was always just one mistake away for his kind. His mistake was obvious, and he rued it: he'd not tried harder to divide the kids and turn them against each other. That Lancer, without instruction from her unconscious Master, would take action to protect Saber's Master, was a blemish on the very idea of the Grail System. Yet it had happened, and under his watch. He hadn't taken his task seriously enough. Or maybe he'd taken it too seriously.

He could have sat back, refused sanctuary, observed from a distance without putting himself forward as the supervisor. The kids didn't even know that there was supposed to be a supervisor. They were stupid, ignorant. They could make all the truces and alliances they wanted. The Grail would correct for them. Why Hubert had chosen to let them team up against him was beyond him. He'd been arrogant, he assumed, though he couldn't point to any particular incident in his memory. That was the problem with arrogance, he knew. He'd been warned by Waters, but he hadn't taken the warning to heart. Maybe that was it. His original mistake.

As he pondered his situation, he kept returning to one question. Why had they let him live?

If they cared about not committing murder, they wouldn't have left him incapable of survival. Maybe it was a sadistic streak. Those cultural Marxists tended toward perverted extremes—this was well-documented. Maybe they would come back in a day to look him over as he wasted away on the pew. Maybe they'd desecrate his dying body further. This was the problem with those people. They were all deviants. Communists and sex addicts.

He wished he'd set up some kind of contingency. He didn't even have regular check-ins planned with his compatriots, so confident had he been in his ability to oversee things. There it was again, the arrogance.

Hubert wished briefly that he were the praying kind. The blind faith in something kind. In his darkest moment he might have a shot at hope, clinging to the chance that his prayer might be heard. But to what could a magus pray in the 21st century? All the old gods were dead or gone, and all the new gods were lies, embellished legends expressly created as tools of social control. The only power in the universe was the universe itself, all the laws that govern physics and magic. And the universe had no will.

It was empty.

Hubert wasn't empty.

His soul still brimmed with magical energy. But he couldn't use it without an incantation; he'd never learned the simpler thaumaturgies, nor the archaic Six Arts that Jerry employed. His magecraft was big, unrefined. He relied on chants, on implements. Should he have learned other methods? Was this his arrogance again, coming back to bite him in the ass?

Not that he'd had much time to diversify his thaumaturgical knowledge, given his double agency.

A magus of the Mage Association and a priest of the Holy Church.

No, that wasn't quite right.

Both were covers.

He'd led a complicated life.

A complicated life with a simple end.

Hubert closed his eyes and counted his breaths.

 

# # #

 

It was nearing ten p.m. and Saber lightly plucked at his golden lyre in Anatoli's dorm room. Lancer's actions in the sanctuary had done away with the last of his reservations around the alliance with Anatoli, and the fact that Jass was now a proper magus and would be capable of supplying him with mana made him less reluctant to use his powers. Onson and Anatoli napped side by side in Anatoli's twin bed; Jass sat observing Raul. The gentle tune slowly pushed the feral gleam from Raul's eyes, and his expression softened.

"Good to have you back," she said quietly.

Raul shook his head. "Woof. Where's Berserker?"

"We don't know. Can you ask him, telepathically?"

Raul scrunched up his face, grimmaced. "I don't know? He was never very talkative."

"He said a lot at Little Skips today. How aware have you been? Did you hear everything that we talked about with Hubert?"

"Vaguely. Something about a class change?"

"Yeah, and there's this." Jass pointed to the coffee table in the middle of the room, on which lay Hubert's arm, blackened on two ends, covered in images of red dogs.

"That fucker got what he had coming," Raul said.

Onson stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning slightly. He hadn't slept well in the sanctuary, he'd explained before passing out.

"Is Raul back?" he asked.

"Yeah." Jass inched forward on her knees and hugged Raul. "We were so worried."

Raul returned the hug, stroked Jass's back.

"I don't even know what to say," he started. "As Berserker taught me about the war, a need to win took over. I had to show you all how weak you were. Friendship seemed a distant worry. The main thing I remember is a deep contempt for society."

"You were under a spell," Jass said, pulling back. "Berserker is Diogenes, and Diogenes is apparently a spiteful bastard."

"Diogenes?" Raul laughed.

"He never introduced himself?"

"He never said anything to me." Raul leaned back against the wall, face to the ceiling. "But that makes sense, I guess. He was summoned Berserker, and traded his madness to others?"

"He called it Paradoxa," Jass said. "And he's got fifteen more Berserkers under him now."

"I wonder if they can spread the madness further," said Onson.

"I hadn't considered that." Jass stood and paced.

"It's possible," said Lancer, immaterial by the window. "We should put them down immediately."

"Can't we just negate the magic with Saber's lyre?"

"The extent to which the Mad Enhancement gripped your friends in the store is on a completely different level," Saber said sadly, still playing the lyre. "Raul was affected by a constant, weak magecraft emanated by Berserker's being. The others were subject to lengthy incantations and the invocation of the full extent of Berserker's Noble Phantasm. I said they were barely human; they're Servants in almost every sense."

"How is that possible? I thought Servants were summoned from the Throne of Heroes."

"There are a couple different mechanisms that would allow it," said Saber. "They could be actual Heroic Spirits who are possessing your friends. They could be Heroic Spirits who replaced your friends. Or your friends could be future heroes, preemptively pulled from the Throne."

"I would suggest haste in dealing with this matter," Lancer warned. "You have to kill them to win the Grail, so you might as well do it before a growing band of super-powered Cynics takes over the whole city. I'm confident in my abilities on the battlefield, but a hundred of those dogs would be hard to take on, much less millions."

Jass looked at her friends. Raul was nodding. Onson's eyes welled with tears. Saber continued playing, eyes closed.

Five hours ago, she'd planned on asking her comrades for their advice on how to win and use the Grail.

Now she had to kill them to win it.

"I don't want to do this," she said.

"What?" asked Raul.

"I don't want to win at this price."

"Don't be stupid, Jass," said Raul. "Fifteen people, for your wish?"

"I can't kill my friends." She didn't say it— _I can't be like Onson_ —but Onson still hung his head. "I just can't. I won't."

Raul stood and took her hand in his. The touch felt good. Too many of her encounters with bodies since Bobsom's death had been violent.

"Do you still believe in your wish?"

Jass shrugged, then nodded.

"And Anatoli does too?"

Jass looked over at Anatoli's unconscious form. He breathed lightly. Hubert's healing spell had done its job. He would survive the night, but he was not completely mended. How did he feel? How would he feel, if he knew the cost?

"He does," said Lancer, "completely."

"Onson?" asked Raul.

"What?"

"Do you believe in Jass and Anatoli's wish?"

"Oh," said Onson. "Yes, it seems like the best course of action."

"That leaves Karli and Rey," said Raul warmly. "But we have what, two thirds? A majority, a quorum, a body capable of making a decision."

"What are you talking about, Raul?"

He dropped Jass's hand.

"We went from seven Servants, to six, to five, if Assassin is really defeated, back up to twenty with Berserker's antics. I think we should take practical measures to reduce that number and bring our faction to victory."

"Raul—"

He held one hand up to Jass, palm forward. "Jass, please keep believing in your wish. I don't have your confidence, but I see the same problems you see. And again, we should ask: what would Jerry want? He wanted to magnify the beauty of the world. I want to try walking down this path with you."

Raul closed his eyes and a faint red glow emanated from the back of his hand, turned away from Jass.

"Raul!"

"By my rights as your Master," he spoke, "inscribed in my body by these three Command Seals, I hereby order you. Diogenes of Sinope, call off your dogs. Your cult is dead. The future is for those with the will to win. Dissolve your school and die."

His hand flashed red, and then the light was gone. He lowered his hand, and Jass saw that where he had previously had all three of his Command Seals was now just a red bruise.

"That should do the trick, if I've been paying attention."

He pointed at Hubert's severed arm. Three by three, the red dog tattoos were flaring up and then dissolving into shapeless red ink.

Jass staggered backward as if under the weight of a tremendous blow.

"No!" yelled Anatoli, sitting up suddenly, eyes wide, covered in sweat and clawing at the air in front of him.

Onson and Raul didn't feel it. They had no connection to the deceased. Jass understood what was happening as the fires inside her jumped happily. The mana captured in her positive, loving relationships with the Socialist Alternative comrades was flooding back to her. Between Jerry's explanations of how mana flowed within bonds of care and her new experience of actually using her magic circuits—as Saber referred to them—to turn mana into magical energy, there was no mistaking what was taking place. Her power was being charged by her friends' deaths.

First Bobsom, and now a dozen comrades and three innocent bystanders? Simple coffee enthusiasts in the wrong place, at the wrong time?

And all victims, ultimately, of Anatoli and Jass's plan. Had they not attempted to bring the matter to the branch meeting, none of this would have happened.

"Saber, let's go."

"Where to?" he asked, vanishing his lyre and standing.

"Anywhere. Come on. Anatoli, Lancer, you're coming too."

Anatoli sat wordless on his bed, mouth agape, staring into space.

"Jass—"

She cut Raul off. "You and Onson do whatever. Stay safe. We're done."

"Done?" asked Onson.

"Come on Anatoli." She stepped up to him and tugged on his arm. "No more mixups. Come on."

"My Master is in no condition to move," said Lancer.

"Then move him," said Jass. "We're leaving."

 _What is the plan?_ asked Saber telepathically. _This is so sudden_.

_We resolve this as quickly as possible. We find Karli, we find Rey, we defeat their Servants and we get our miracle. Before anyone else dies._

_I like the initiative,_ said Saber _, but I worry that you are controlled by your passion._

Jass thought about a time Linda and she had talked about Fred Hampton, chairman of the Chicago Black Panther Party, cut down at the age of twenty-one by the FBI. He talked about love. Passion had its place. A deep, revolutionary love motivated the best leaders, and their ability to share that love was a not insignificant factor in winning over the masses to a new politics. Jass was not scared of her own passion. It would power her, it would power Saber. They would win the Grail War and then everyone would know that passion.

"Now, Lancer."

With a sigh, Lancer materialized and scooped Anatoli over her shoulder.

"Lie low lest Karli or Rey try to come for you thinking you're still in the war," Jass cautioned her friends. "Stick together and get lots of rest. We'll be back with the Holy Grail."

"Okay," said Onson flatly.

He'd clearly given up at the start, Jass realized. From the moment he realized he'd killed Bobsom. He didn't have the heart for the task at hand. That was fine. That was maybe even good. Jass didn't think she had what it took, either, until Raul's actions impressed upon her the urgency with which she needed to act.

And Raul. He said nothing as she backed toward the door, Saber turning to mist at her side. Had he always been so ruthless? So pragmatic? Had Saber really dispelled Berserker's spell, or was this Diogenes still acting through him? Jass had no way of knowing, and was too upset with him to stick around in any attempt to figure it out.

She gave him one last look before she exited, closing the door behind her.

"Where to?" Lancer asked as they headed for the elevator.

Jass flipped a coin in her head.

"Karli. She's the Master of either Caster or Rider, don't know which. We'll go to her dorm and see what happens from there. Be ready to fight."

"Feels weird taking orders from you," said Lancer.

"It's not an order," said Jass, doing her best to keep her tone amicable. She wanted to believe she was open to input. She didn't mean to suddenly be the sole individual in charge of their four-person pact, the sole executor of her world-changing wish; she just needed to act. "Do you have a better plan?"

"Quite the opposite," Lancer smiled, pace quickening. "This is the course of action I advocated to my Master from the first hour."

It was only when they paused at the end of the hall, waiting for the elevator to arrive, that Jass remembered that weird did not necessarily mean bad. She returned Lancer's smile. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

Lancer nodded for Jass to step through first.

"Let's shiver some timbers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on here, and I'm excited to share the next steps. I'm curious as always to hear what yall think is coming up for these characters. What's going to happen to Onson and Raul, abandoned in Anatoli and Raul's dorm room? Will Hubert die a mediocre death? What's Karli's wish?
> 
> I'm also dying to know what questions YOU have. :)
> 
> Keep the comments coming. They give me life and encourage me to post more often! Next up, some more Red. ^_^


	18. In the Labyrinth :: I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another scene in Jerry's office, in another place, at another time.

In the Labyrinth

I

2011

 

 

Red entered the office, hairs bristling at the mana bloom.

The place stank of death, of the sickly sweet mana released by expired souls. It should have returned to the universe. Instead, it was trapped in seven orchids—one wilted, five opulent, the last tremendous, ballooned beyond the size of any flower Red had seen in his life. Its stalks and leaves occupied almost a quarter of the room. Shards of its inadequate pot littered the floor.

The missing kids were right here, their essence infused into the plants. Melissa and Kathy, the withered and the rampant.

In the sleepy seaside town of Santa Frida, the newest campus of the University of California sprawled between cold dirt beaches and redwood groves. Despite the newness of the infrastructure, the transience of the college population, and the absence of Clock Tower activity anywhere nearby, Santa Frida had a deep and old magic to it. In a tiny office in Remy Hall, in the English department, rogue magus Jerome Cormic had fabricated a manaetic microcosm using houseplants and impressionable teens.

A tabby cat looked up at Red from the windowsill where it basked. It, too, was overstuffed with mana. Red smelled its name. _Fishsticks._

"Did you do this?" Red asked the cat, suddenly taken with it. He walked over and scratched it between the ears. "Who's a villainous magical kitty cat?"

That's when he felt the walls move. He looked around. It was just a feeling. Nothing had moved. But the mana in the room was different, somehow, and Red felt the door distancing itself from him. Another feeling. Another shake of the head. The orchids nodded back, bobbling. Fishsticks purred like a motorboat. A vertigo of the soul gripped Red, but he steeled himself and focused on his task.

Red destroyed the orchids and set out to follow their mana back to the disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! More Red in the next full chapter. <3


	19. 10 - Valor Wasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red meets his colleagues from the Clock Tower. Jass and company encounter an unexpected opponent.

Red stood outside Coral Tower, watching the magic signatures in Karli Dandleton's dorm room. He had easily discovered the identities of the seven students in Jerome Cormic's latest experiment. It was no secret in the NYU community that Cormic played favorites and was always cultivating one or another small group of proteges. Red had seen these groups come and go at Cormic's previous job; had intervened in 2011 when members of one such group had started disappearing, murdered by Cormic in an effort to keep the details of his experiments secret.

Secret!

Anyone who knew the first thing about magecraft could sense that something was up with Cormic's offices. He probably only thought he was being secretive because he arrogantly assumed he was the only one with knowledge of mana. The Mage Association had been watching him for years.

Yet the Mage Association had never figured out that he was a minotaur.

Why was he a minotaur?

The question still bugged Red, even as he focused on the investigation at hand. Why would a minotaur pass as a human, and why would a minotaur run weird experiments channeling human emotion into mana stored in orchids? Deep down, Red was sure these questions were somehow relevant. But he pushed them back, knowing he had to concentrate on the immediate. Later that night he would be picking up six other magi from the airport and they would begin the process of taking over as the Masters in the new Holy Grail War. Before that, he had to figure out which Masters and Servants were still in play. He had yet to find the Church supervisor. He had to come up with some initial strategy proposals. He was going to be the leader of the operation. He hated that kind of responsibility; he'd become a tracker because he liked working in solitude.

He'd found Dandleton's residence simply by tracking the mana of Cormic's orchids. Four had made their way into this building. Standing with his back to a telephone pole in the dusk, he retrieved a small notepad from his breast pocket and materialized a pen in his hand. Below his notes on Anatoli Dustice, he began jotting down some new thoughts.

Karli Dandleton

• hostile to supervisor (broke connection physically)

• wish: tbd

• magus: no?

Servant: Caster - item creation EX, terrain creation A, magic signatures early AoM (~0 BC?), magecraft EX

• specialty: stonework magecraft? cause & effect reversal… reversal?

• identity: tbd, clues: engineer? mason of wonders?

His notes trailed off, pen tip still touching the pad. He concentrated on all the signatures he'd followed to get here, focused on the scent and flavor of the mana he'd traced. Dandleton hadn't left her dorm room since she'd fled the English Department. He'd found the remnants of a geas in the stairwell there, and there were other paths leading away from the scene. Rey McSriff and her Servant—Rider, he'd deduced—had left the building by car, unfortunately; cars, like many post-industrial technologies, mass-produced largely by automated machines, served to obfuscate and dampen magecraft. This is why many magi refused to use phones or computers, even when there wasn't a material penalty to doing so: they preferred to rely on their techniques and on hand-crafted objects whose mana they could feel.

But McSriff drove a car, it seemed, and that was to her advantage so long as she cared about not being found by Red.

Red had found the others easily enough.

Jass Bonzalez and Raul Chamgerlain had been with Dustice when Red snooped around the Weinstein Hall dormitory earlier in the day. He'd picked up on the signatures of powerful Knight-family Servants, likely Saber and Lancer by the aroma of their skills. At least one of the threesome was under the effects of a mind-altering enchantment. None of them seemed content with their role in the Grail War, and Bonzalez seemed really into Jez Corbyn. This had brought an involuntary grin to Red's face as he discovered it, sensing in her soul the effects of the popular ‘Go Jeremy Corbyn' chant, a minor mystery designed to stave off despair. Having seen Labour both rise and fall, Red had little hope in a lasting resurgence of the socialist movement. Still, major left victories would make things a bit harder for Anne Marie Waters and those ghouls in the Thule Society.

There were only two question marks left in Red's notepad: Bobsom Dugnutt and Onson Sweemey. He was pretty sure that the former had died in the summoning ritual, and tracking the latter was his next task. One was doubtless Archer's Master; the other Assassin's. As Red turned away from Coral Tower and began the trek back to Cormic's office, he took a mental inventory.

He'd seen evidence of Caster, Saber, Lancer, and Rider. Berserker and Assassin's trails both led to death. If Archer had been Dugnutt's Servant, they wouldn't be a factor. Even with Archer's Independent Action skill, they would run out of mana before Red's team was ready to try to find and bind them. That meant there were four Servants to bind, five if Archer was Sweemey's.

Red was running out of daylight, so he sauntered a bit, weaving subtle magecrafts in the less obtrusive Six Arts of Alters to hide his enhanced movement speed. To strangers on the street he looked like yet another busy New Yorker, navigating the bustle of the Manhattan sidewalks with an elegant impatience. In reality he was taking one city block per stride. In a few seconds he was back on Greene Street.

Sweemey hadn't been back to Cormic's office since the summoning over twenty-four hours earlier. If Red's instinct was correct, Sweemey had left unconscious, doutbless with the assistance of his Servant. This made him untraceable by mana, but Red could try to follow his Servant. By focusing on the signatures of Servants outside the office and eliminating the traces of those he had already found in the company of their Masters, Red picked out Archer's tracks.

That was the lead to follow, so Red left the office with his nose to the mana signatures of the Knight-family Servant. Their scent was intensely nostalgic, but he couldn't place it.

He paused at the door to the street, his curiosity piqued by a notice on the department bulletin board.

=~=~=

ATTENTION STUDENTS & FACULTY

NYC MTA Still Investigating Possible Gas Leak

Don't Ride the Subway!!

(If you did ride it today, and experienced unusual drowsiness, please contact **[PHONE NUMBER]** )

Reports of fatigue and illness from every line of the system. No explanation yet, and the lines are still open as nothing dangerous has been found. Be safe! Please avoid unnecessary exposure.

\- Office of the Dean

=~=~=

Red made a note of the posted phone number and exited the building.

He didn't need an MTA investigation to guess what was going on. New York's incredibly frequent manaquakes were one notable feature of its ley lines. Another was their origin. They were artificial, in a sense, birthed far more recently than any others in the world. They resisted rigorous research given their inherent tendency to dissuade magi from living in the city, but the Mage Association still had extensive documentation on their emergence, a process directly tied to the establishment of the subway system. As ridership increased, so too did the power of the ley lines. Their course lay along the tracks, their supply of energy growing with every day's crop of commuters. New York City was the only place in the world whose ley lines were tied to civilization rather than nature, the only place in the world where leyline development followed society's rather than leading it.

Unexplained gas leaks were a comically common feature in the Fuyuki City Grail Wars. Naturally, Servants—especially of the Caster-class—would use large-scale rituals and Bounded Fields to drain the life force and magical energy from thousands of people at once. The ensuing loss of personality, memory, and life were always explained away with gas leaks, or sometimes natural or even astrological events. If subway riders were falling sick and losing energy during a Grail War, that suggested one thing: one of the Master-Servant pairs was using the ley lines to harness power.

Red had to assume that the ley lines were also being tapped to power the Grail, as they had been in Fuyuki City.

He made a note to himself that he and his team should move the operation outside the boroughs at the earliest possibility. The risk of a severe manaquake was probably growing quickly. It would be foolish, an amateur mistake, to get hit by a bad one. Red liked being a magus.

Archer's trail led him south, deeper and deeper into downtown, until he found himself standing next to the Charging Bull and Brave Girl statues. All around him, Wall Street slept, suffused in traces of Archer's magical energy. It felt as though he had entered every building here, gone in every direction. Red cursed. He couldn't follow a dozen tracks at once, and it was getting to be time for him to head to JFK to meet his colleagues from the Association.

He made a few more quick notes in his pad.

Archer, ____________

• Master? Onson Sweemey, or Bobsom Dugnutt (d)

• Importance: high, or low (will run out of mana soon and return to the Grail)

• no Presence Concealment, some sort of tail-shaking skill

• interests: Wall Street, baron? banker? banker killer? antisemite?

• identity, era, alignment all unknown

He wasn't satisfied with this level of uncertainty, but it was time to go. He stepped away from the statues, toward a corner in a wall, and looked around. The street was largely abandoned. Only a couple nearby windows were lit. After triple checking that no passersby would catch him, he muttered an old incantation for travel, picturing himself drowning to power his magic circuits. In a dull flash he was gone, reappearing in a bathroom stall.

All around him he heard suitcases on rollers being dragged over slick tile. Hand dryers and sinks and seven foreign languages made themselves heard. He flushed the empty American Standard toilet in front of him and then stepped out of the stall. The men around him looked either excited or tired, most of them wearing dark jackets. He washed his hands, though he didn't need to, and walked into the wide hallway, littered with the neon signs of dozens of concession stands and mini marts. Travelers milled about in droves, harried conversations over cellphones droning out most of the flight announcements in Terminal 7. With a glance Red found the gate with the British Airways plane parked outside. Passengers were deboarding, stepping out onto the blue carpet, mostly haggard-looking but also bearing the relieved smiles of the arrived.

The magi stepped out of the boarding tunnel in a cluster, dressed in a variety of colored suits. Casda Amdribe in his worst moss green. Bennis Litzgerbald in a dull mahogany. Icy Dalthera Garleyel, an old paramour of Red's, in muted mauve. Tanny Cocks in navy. Head Crumpeton in maroon. Lobe Farrys in her trademark burnt ochre. Farrys and Garleyel weren't trying to avoid looking conspicuous, with white neckerchiefs and flowery cuffs. Red sighed. Association magi weren't known for subtlety.

"Striker Voss," said Litzgerbald primly as he approached, right hand extended. "Lord El-Melloi II gave us the overview, but said you'd give us the, what do they say here, DL?"

"No one says that," grumbled Red. "Listen. Welcome to New York. Let's have this conversation somewhere more private."

"Agreed."

Red dodged a golf cart carrying two young women with crutches and their suitcases, then led the way toward the parking lot, where they could disappear behind some convenient pillars and teleport into the city. As Crumpeton and Cocks made small talk about A&W and Pandora behind him, Red was formulating his briefing. He would make sure everyone was familiar with the parameters of the Grail War. After answering any questions he would confirm the general plan: their team was to commandeer the Servants and then, while tricking those Servants into thinking they were really fighting the Grail War, they would sacrifice them one by one in staged fights. They would collaborate. Of course, it wasn't a risk-free plan. Without extremely specific instruction, one or more Servants might take it upon themselves to go after enemy Masters. Red's team of Association magi would be accepting significant risk by taking on Command Seals. Not to mention the risk of operating in New York City. Or the fact that they might have to fight the Servants to become Masters in the first place.

The seven magi walked past Baggage Claim.

Once the plan was laid out, Red would again check for questions before launching into the data he'd gathered on the existing Masters and their Servants. Most of those Masters didn't even want to fight, but McSriff and Dandleton might need some convincing.

After turning a corner, bright signage became rarer. Green EXIT signs were few and far between, and there were no shops set up in the concrete parking structure. Other travelers were walking ahead and behind Red's group, so he pulled his colleagues to the side, huddling behind an elevator.

He looked to each of the other magi in turn.

"I'll initiate a seven-point transit," he suggested. "I've got a preliminary base of operations in Manhattan."

Garleyel, to his left, shrugged and nodded, and then Red felt a sharp pain in his side, followed by a familiar moistness. He instinctively clutched at his side where Crumpeton was twisting an ornate silver-inscribed dagger.

"El-Melloi?" he asked, choking on blood.

"Waters," said Crumpeton, apologetic smile on his face. The other Association magi looked sheepish. "Your nose was too good, old chap."

"El—"

"Lord El-Melloi II is safe," said Farrys. "He's a bit dull to tower politics."

Red wobbled and then collapsed, watching the blood pool before him on the garage floor. His Six Arts senses still active, he could see the magical energy flowing out of him, od returning to mana. He didn't waste a moment hoping to survive. The dagger had disrupted his magic circuits. Even if he'd been skilled in healing, he wouldn't have been able to repair his body after sustaining this wound. And even if his murder hadn't been so skillfully executed, he had six enemies standing over him, ready to finish him off if need be.

"Classic dagger," he said simply. _Gets us every time._

He closed his eyes and waited.

"Let's find Hubert," Red heard one of them say, every word fainter than the previous as his consciousness ebbed. By the time he could sense that the magi were gone, he knew he couldn't open his eyes if he tried. He'd lost so much blood, so much life. His soul had been rent by the dagger and he was just waiting for the end.

Still, he mustered the last reserves in his lungs and said the name one more time:

"El..."

"Daddy!" some kid was crying. Red was sure he looked a mess. He always knew he would end up like this someday. Bleeding out because of some dispute in the Association. All he wanted to do was to protect normal people from the devastation of mana cataclysms. All he wanted to do was stop the Cormics of the world. But this last Cormic, THE Cormic, had friends in the Association. No, not friends, he remembered, laughing at his own dying consciousness for the mistake. They used him and killed him. Now they had used and killed Red.

_We're the same in the end, Cormic._

_Pawns for the ambitious ones._

_Well._

Red felt hands on his neck and shoulder. The good Samaritans were wasting their time. He was done. The last of his mana was escaping with his final breaths.

_I take it back, Cormic. We're not the same._

_I die a human._

_What were you, again?_

_El..._

The last scene he visualized before losing consciousness was a memory, a childhood trip to see the Major Oak. The giant tree, ancient even by his standards, had left a deep impression on him. Its leaves had smelled, he realized dimly, of Archer.

 

# # #

 

It was halfway through the thirteen minute walk between Weinstein Hall and Coral Towers, just as they were turning the corner at East 14th with Union Square Park before them, that Jass felt Saber's telepathic alarm. The intersection was deserted, the street lamps dim. Strange, for 10 p.m. on a Wednesday. She stopped dead in her tracks, and Saber materialized in front of her, Goliath's sword drawn, held up like a tower shield. An arrow whistled and bounced off of it, clattering on the sidewalk.

Another arrow followed, and another, Saber deftly swinging the sword to deflect the projectiles. The shots were coming from the park.

Lancer deposited Anatoli on the ground behind Jass. "I'll deal with this." She dashed forward into the trees, quickly disappearing from view.

"What should I do?" asked Jass.

"Patience," said Saber. "I shall defend while Lancer takes on our assailant."

"Wouldn't it be better if you took them two-on-one?"

"They are aiming for you."

Jass didn't talk back, thinking about how Onson's Servant had targeted Bobsom without even being ordered to. She had to accept Saber's shield for now, but she didn't like leaving Lancer to fight alone in the thicket.

"Can you sense if there are any other Masters here?" she asked. "Other magi?"

"No," said Saber. "This isn't a guarantee, but I think it's just us and one enemy Servant. Likely"—he caught an arrow in his off hand—"Archer."

"I didn't realize the class names were so literal," said Jass. "Lancer doesn't use a lance. And that... isn't really a saber, is it?"

"The Grail chose the names." Saber maintained a steady tone, engaged in conversation, despite the occasional arrow deflection. "I assume they are useful somehow, but I can't say I understand the reasoning."

The arrow fire subsided, and Anatoli stirred. He'd spent almost fifteen minutes in stupor since Raul's self-destruct order to the Berserkers. Now he stood, thoughtful expression on his face.

"Anatoli?"

"Sorry, Jass, one second." He nodded, winced, frowned, nodded. Jass wondered if this is how she looked when communicating telepathically with Saber. "Okay, here's the deal. There's an enemy Servant in the park, and Lancer needs backup. He's got her surrounded somehow, something about an Anti-Army Noble Phantasm."

"So what, we just run in?"

"No," said Saber.

"No," agreed Anatoli. "Lancer wants us to start a fire."

"A fire?"

"Burn the park down."

"What?"

"We don't have time," said Anatoli. "Lancer will lose if we don't act or retreat, and I might need to use a Command Seal to recall her, given the danger she's in."

_Well fuck it._

"Okay," said Jass. "No bystanders in there?"

"Not that Lancer could see."

It was more than risky. The park's benches were no strangers to Manhattan's homeless population. It would be unusual if none were present. Then again, the absence of pedestrians and cars in Jass's field of view was also unusual. Still she hesitated. How could she just burn down a park?

"You said you'd made up your mind," said Saber.

"Fine," said Jass.

She started crossing the street, Saber alert in front of her, Anatoli following at a distance. When she reached the edge of the park she extended both hands and focused on the image of her soul immolating. Her magic circuits activated, and the fires returned, billowing out from her hands and catching in the trees and brush.

"That's odd," remarked Saber as the park began to blaze. "Before, I couldn't sense another magus. Now it feels like we're surrounded on all sides by a magus, engulfed in a single giant magus. My Magic Resistance skill must be overreacting to something in the environment."

"Here's another odd thing," said Anatoli grimly as they watched the flames spread. "We assumed Archer was out of the picture, because Bobsom was dead."

As Jass chewed on that one, Lancer staggered out of the flames, then fell to her knees on the pavement. She smelled of burnt hair, and was full of arrows.

"That bastard," she managed, "has a whole gang! It's Berserker round two in there."

"Multiple Servants?" asked Jass.

"It sure felt like it," Lancer grimmaced.

The four backed away from the inferno now consuming the entire square. A burning tree toppled and hit a traffic light, and the fire spread across the street. Coral Tower, just a couple blocks down 14th to the east, was blocked off. With body language, the group acknowledged that they needed to go around the fire rather than through it, and they retreated westward.

"Why the trees?" asked Jass as they went.

Lancer laughed a short, derisive laugh. "I know his true name. We played at him and his band when we were children. Robin Hood."

"So it was his Merry Men?" Anatoli mimed firing an arrow with a bow.

Great, thought Jass, we smoked out Robin Hood's Merry Men. They were _real_ heroes, champions of the common folk, a thorn in the side of tyranny. Ruefully she asked herself what she had expected. These conflicts had seemed easier when the enemy Servants were obscure, antagonistic philosophers. But the Servants were called heroic spirits for a reason, it seemed, and even Diogenes was a hero to some. Her Saber was a hero by all accounts. And one of the Servants had looked like Jesus. She'd have to fight through some good guys yet to win the Grail. Robin Hood was just the first of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archer is still here! To what end? For how long? I'm so excited about this yall. :D I've peppered in some clues so let me know if you have any guesses as to what Archer's deal is.
> 
> And Red. Poor Red. Fan favorite Red! His last word is a prayer. Will it be answered?
> 
> A common problem encountered by people like Red who try to eschew politics and focus on doing their jobs is that other people will keep doing politics. And the right tends to be better organized than the (somewhat) compassionate center. Now there's six more Thule agents in New York City. Tough luck.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	20. In the Labyrinth :: J

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 of Jerry's final experiment.

In the Labyrinth

J

September 5

 

 

Jerry tapped his pen against the desk in an erratic rhythm. Everything was ready, from the fresh orchids on the sill to the room's air flow and temperature. He'd done this dozens of times. It should have been old hat, but the starts were never easy. He was nervous.

Every footstep outside the room made his heart catch. It was a well-trafficked hallway. The nerves were silly, but he refused to blame himself. He simply acknowledged the nervousness, unwilling to let negativity intrude.

Finally, the knock.

"Come in," he said, already working the orchidinal Croon into his voice.

Before the door was open, he could Read the kid's mana pool, sense his soul beyond the barrier. Anatoli Dustice. Quiet, sensitive. A good listener. Considerate. Trustworthy. Solid.

The knob turned and in walked Anatoli, big and soft in multiple layers of fleece, his black hair and beard thick like bear's fur. Despite the visual dissimilarity, there was something in the kid's countenance that reminded Jerry of Trevor. Something deeply malleable. Maybe that was why he'd singled him out.

"I uh, I got your e-mail," said Anatoli.

"Yes, yes, come in, and close the door behind you."

"Can I ask what this is about, Professor?" Uncertainty swelled in the kid's soul. "In the syllabus it said your office hours are Thursday."

"Yes," said Jerry, weaving calming magic into the air. "If you went on ratemyprof, you've seen that I have a bit of a reputation."

Anatoli nodded, frowning.

"Great." This was Jerry's favorite part. He'd adapted his methods since Santa Frida. Gone was the dissembling. It was all still a charade, but the blunt approach with a nod to transparency really put these kids at ease. It was like frontporching, or lampshading. Base manipulation. "The rumors are true. I build little cliques of proteges every semester. But the evaluations won't tell you why. Do you want to know why?"

A String on yes, a Clasp on no. Anatoli was no different from a marionette when he nodded.

"Magic is real, and I want your help with a little project."

The third orchid from the left opened as Anatoli's soul brightened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jerry uses a thaumaturgical suite known as the "Six Arts of Alters," or sometimes just the "Six Arts" in this text. This is a crude form of magecraft primarily practiced in ancient Roman colonies. Its most distinctive feature is the immense amount of metaphor used to enact it. Whereas a lot of Fate magecraft is done with implements, chants, or other media, the Six Arts rely on a complex series of mental images and linguistic self-tricks—not unlike the activation of magic circuits in the first place, relegating the Six Arts to a "simple" characterization. This might be why it was easy to adopt in the boonies at a time when Magic was dying.
> 
> Each of the Arts is itself a metaphor tying a desired result (influence, knowledge, etc.) to a material process (singing, reading, etc.). Before his imprisonment in the Clock Tower, this was the extent of the magic Jerry Cormic was aware of. Despite his recently expanded knowledge, he is still not trained in any "proper" magecraft and continues to rely on the Six Arts.
> 
> I won't explain the Six Arts in further detail here, but I wanted to throw out some tidbits in case they're interesting. Fate fans won't have automatic familiarity with these mechanics, and I thought at some point I should explicitly acknowledge: Jerry Cormic features in a previous, fully original story. The Six Arts are my creation, adapted mostly painlessly to mesh with Fate mechanics in this crossover fanfic. ;)


	21. 11 - If We Could Communicate with the Gnat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archer is healed, but at what cost?

The land convulsed as its agent burned.

The lines twitched and thrashed, flinging their symbiotes to and fro as train cars displaced the despoiled earth.

A hundred years of waiting, of hunger, had been rewarded in the arrival of the green. Masterless besides ideals aligned perfectly with the land's, the green had sworn itself to an ancient and sacred role. Now the green burned as the land had, singed by parasitic fires. Like the land, the green would survive, hardened. Still, the pain was shared, more acute now than the centuries of indignity to which the land had become inured.

And in its thrall, the land cried out.

Instinctually, it sought to heal its agent. The green would recover quickly, wounds cleansed by the land's mana. But the surge, like all exertions, had a cost. The square of time buckled. The limited nature of the universe, foreign as a concept to the parasites, was as ancient knowledge to the land, predating the incursions, the invasions, the inflictions. The task of the land, a historic task, as it would be forever enshrined in the language of the world, was not going to be won without sacrifice. The symbiotes squirmed and expired, returning what they had borrowed to the cosmic cycles in which the land played but a small part. The agent was too important to not collect on this debt.

And the land cried again, for the symbiotes were its children, too, and filicide was not something to be relished.

Vigor took the green, and the pain receded.

No joy replaced the pain. Optimism did not come easily to the land. It expected retribution for its extension. It understood its place, a tiny portion of a greater being granted temporary consciousness. An appendage of Gaia, acting on its own will. Eventually it would either satisfy its task or fail miserably, and at that point, it would return to being a transient tract of land, variably surrounded by or submerged in water, a vestigial growth at best and a non-feature at worst, just another insignificant spot on the planet Earth. How soon this demotion would come depended on forces beyond the land's understanding, an understanding of limited scope, pertinent almost entirely to the nature of the task at hand.

The imaginary machines would grind to a halt, their fictional growth to no longer mock the finity of the real world. Rises would be once again matched by falls. The parasites' greed may be limitless, but little else was. Soon they would understand their own smallness.

Soon…

The parasites would say, in their tongue, "the blink of an eye." Their haughty dominance ensured that the land would understand these metaphors. But even those who spoke of geological time, of the shifting of the planet's skeleton, couldn't understand how infinitesimal a blink this all was for the land. Its consciousness was infantile, its memory interminable. The slights it had suffered were, ultimately, a mere blip—an infraction older than its awareness, yet a grain of sand on the beach of its existence. This would all be over soon.

The green gathered itself and stood atop its master.

It wanted something. A golden cup.

The land was incapable of caring about the parasites' relics, and its only wish needed no miracles. The green would accomplish it gladly in its own pursuit of the cup. All the land needed to do was to keep the green alive. To sacrifice a few more of its swarming children, to reclaim the mana they had stolen from the universe, to give it to the green.

The lines slackened, and the green clambered up to another CEO's bedroom balcony.

 

# # #

 

"This is all good news, Master." Saber's telepathy emanated from just over Jass's shoulder. "When we know the enemy's identity, it's much easier to fight."

She stood at the intersection with Sixth Avenue, debating whether to turn left or right. The great bonfire of Union Square lay behind them, smoke billowing above the skyscrapers. The traffic lights were out, and where the streets had been abandoned a few minutes ago there were now throngs of spectators filming the fire. Saber and Lancer had dematerialized to preserve mana and attract less attention, but they were present, communicating telepathically with their respective Masters, occasionally speaking with disembodied voices. Lancer in particular had needed to disperse, her physical body badly wounded in the last fight. Without a magus for a Master, she had explained, her regeneration was slow at best.

Jass spoke aloud as she and Anatoli pushed past some gawkers.

"Should we deal with Robin Hood before approaching Karli, or do we carry on?"

The Servants were divided on the topic. Saber wanted to deal with the known threat before charging into enemy territory with an exposed back. Lancer thought Archer would give them a wide berth for the time being, and wasn't excited for an immediate rematch. Anatoli shrugged, his features soft with self-doubt.

"I'm not a strategist," he offered, "and even if I were, I don't know what these people are capable of."

"We have a pretty good idea of what Archer can do," Lancer interjected.

"Right, but the other two? Rider and Caster?"

"Riders are agile but frail. I doubt this one poses much danger. Casters cheat." Lancer said these things firmly, gravely. "I think it would be unwise to give Caster more time to cheat."

"What do you mean by cheating?" asked Jass.

A moment passed. "It would be hard to explain concretely," she offered finally. "But they tend to be magi themselves, with more tools at their disposal than the rest of us. They are the weakest in a fight, but they avoid fights. They might raise armies or even summon their own Servants. We got a taste with Berserker in the cafe."

"Okay, that's helpful."

Jass looked to Anatoli, then nodded. "Let's mitigate the cheating then, shall we?"

Saber, counsel given, didn't object. Anatoli looked happy to not have to call the shot. Lancer appeared briefly, for effect, and hefted her axe in the air.She attracted surprisingly few gazes. Passersby were more concerned with the blazing park than a pirate cosplayer, it seemed.

"Booty awaits!" she cried.

Jass smiled despite herself. She understood, of course, that Lancer was some kind of pirate, but the double entendre captured her interpretation of the utterance. She imagined, briefly, this ravishing red-haired fighter topping a willingly helpless partner and getting that booty. Even as she reminded herself that her mind was making an immature joke out of Lancer's warcry, the image lingered. Her smile deepened as the scene became more detailed in her imagination. Leather straps around the pirate's waist, a thick wooden prick delving into—the corner of her mouth moistened and she wiped it. Lancer's eyes were locked on hers, staring deep into her soul.

"I wouldn't mind a refill sometime soon," she said, winking at Jass.

Then the ground shook once, and Jass came back to Earth. Anatoli glanced about, confused. "Earthquake?"

Jass nodded uncertainly. Tiny tremors like this weren't uncommon in her native Los Angeles.

"I—"

She never made it further. The ground trembled, then heaved. Glass windows around them shattered as the earthquake tore through Manhattan. Jass lost her footing, felt Saber's strong arms before the world's swirling prevented further cohesive sense perception. All continuity was lost, and then she was on her feet amidst the wreckage, Anatoli beside her, Servants nowhere to be seen. Everywhere the ground was buckled or extruded. Bits of subway cars seemed to have burrowed up through the surface, their windows painted red from the inside, dulled with dust and detritus on the outside. A cacophony of screams and moans filled the air. The burning park was immediately forgotten in this new cataclysm.

"Is this the 'cheating' you mentioned?" Jass asked the empty air.

Lancer didn't reply.

Saber's telepathic assurances were absent as well.

Anatoli looked pained.

The friends exchanged a look, fearful puzzlement.

_Saber?_

The only reply to her entreaty was the continued groaning of the dying.

"We need to get out of here," she said to Anatoli, sharply. "We need to run."

He nodded, and they ran.

It wasn't easy going, as the smooth sidewalks they were used to were now torn and fractured. Steel beams and parts of buildings littered the streets. Here and there the rifts in the streets hissed with steam. Jass held her sleeve over her mouth and nose and she skipped uneasily from footing to footing. It wasn't easy going, because they had run and fought all day, powering through loss and turmoil. Still, they made it, forced feet to follow feet as they continued westward. They made it past the wreckage, on to less-disturbed blocks, blocks where there were still living people milling about. Others joined them as they ran, survivors, witnesses, people of all kinds fleeing the explosions. The epicenter was at Times Square, Jass noted, as she overheard people babbling scared on their cell phones. Sirens blared, and helicopters appeared to add the noise of their propellers to the already overfull soundscape.

Dodging rubberneckers, they made it a full six blocks before the red Alfa Romeo pulled up on the sidewalk in front of them, tires screeching to a sudden halt.

Jass, focused on her escape, at first thought nothing of the obstacle, and moved to dash around it. It was Anatoli, always the cool one, who grabbed her hand, rooting her to the spot. Only then did she realize who the passengers were.

On the right, lolling back with a dazed smile on her face, one arm hanging over the car door, several buttons of her blouse undone, was Rey McSriff. Her hair in uncharacteristic braids, her glasses missing, but definitely Rey. The straight-edge, quiet one. Jass would never have expected to see her lounging in such a snazzy ride, but then nothing about the last two days had met her expectations.

None of this inured her to shock, though, and when she saw who sat behind the wheel, she almost fainted.

Sitting there with an understated smile on his beautiful lips, dressed to the nines and one hundred percent _alive_ , was Bobsom Dugnutt. Jass's body burned with a new fire as she took in his face, his pose. His new clothes were better-tailored, impeccably white and stiff. He looked taller, fitter, radiant. She knew she had mourned him, she knew his loss had devastated her, but suddenly none of her grief seemed like enough. She'd been apart from him for two days, and she needed him more than anything she'd ever needed before. She'd been in hell. How had she not recognized it for what it was? None of her coping had been appropriate. She should have followed him into death, she realized. Though if she had, a no less unreasonable part of her argued, she wouldn't be seeing him now.

She tried to call out to him, but her breath hitched in her chest. He just smiled calmly at her. Rey turned her head slightly, the better to face Jass, and licked her lips. Had Rey always been so alluring? Why were her braids and lack of glasses so sexy? Jass couldn't move for desire. She wanted her friends. She _wanted_ them.

Rey lazily lifted her right hand from where it dangled over the car door and curled her index finger. An invitation. Jass stepped forward.

It was on her second step that she realized Anatoli had been yelling her name this whole time, and for a brief moment the world revealed itself to her: Rey, near corpse-like in the passenger seat of a dented green Cadillac XLR, her face gaunt and eyes flat; Anatoli, juxtaposed between herself and a tall man in a white suit, swordpoint emerging from his back as he choked on her name one last time.

"Ja—ss—"

And then Goliath's giant blade crashed into the hood of the Cadillac. The world unfurled as if Jass were being pulled back from a movie set. Anatoli's body crumpled to the ground as the man in white extracted his sword. Saber, present and materialized once more, charged and swung again, his blade moving in a tremendous arc, and the man in white dodged easily. An explosion originating somewhere in the car followed, almost unremarkable against the background tumult rending Manhattan. Rey's body seemed to float up into the air away from what looked like cheesy VFX, and then Jass saw the pure white horse jumping up beneath her, its rider sweeping her friend away. The giant sword flashed through the air once more, twice more, and then Saber leapt and swung hard for the horse's rump, this time striking true. The horse exploded in a cascade of blue sparks, but this only increased the momentum affecting its rider. He catapulted into the night sky, Rey trailing behind him like a rag doll, and Saber didn't give chase.

The world only stopped moving when Saber moved to Jass's side and put his hand on her shoulder. His delicate fingers radiated warmth, and her mind cleared.

"What happened?"

"We must hurry," said Saber quietly. He gestured over his shoulder, and Jass saw the crowds gathering, onlookers gaping as they took in Saber's sword, the blown-up car, the wreath of flames with which Jass had unconsciously encircled herself. She dismissed the flames and shook her head.

"Anatoli."

"He is fallen, Master. That is part of why we must hurry."

Fallen. _Dead._

Of course. Why had Jass assumed that Bobsom would be the last?

Saber spoke again, more urgently. "Whatever caused the subway to explode shook us, Master. Lancer needs your help."

She staggered forward, knelt at Anatoli's side. His fleece jacket was torn, his shirt dark near his heart. The sword had gone right through him. A touch of blood was crusting at the corner of his lips. His eyes were open, his face fixed in a look not of horror nor shock but satisfaction. He had saved her, and he'd been pleased with himself in his last moments.Jass's fists clenched as she tried not to cry. Saber was right; they had to hurry. The unknowns were piling up, and taking their toll. Anatoli was gone; she was shaken. Lancer was missing, and—Lancer?

"Lancer?"

"We need to go somewhere private," Saber said, his tone no longer urgent but final.

Jass nodded and stood. As she pushed herself up, right hand on her knee, she noticed something different about the back of her hand. Her third Command Seal had returned to her, taking up its original residence next to its brethren: three red sheep in a row. A glance at Anatoli confirmed that it had transferred back from him, leaving only a faint red splotch on his cooling forehead. Pin pricks in her left hand caused her to investigate it, too, and there were three more marks. Red roses. Another set of Command Seals.

Mother Jones rang in her ears. _Fight like hell for the living_.

"I'm ready."

As she said the words, she somehow knew they were true. She had wavered so many times since the ritual, experienced such loss and violence, but now it was true. She was ready. Saber had been right from the beginning: this was a war, and she was on her own.

Saber said, "I know," and Jass felt their bond deepening as he took her hand. "Hang tight."

And then he pulled her up off her feet as he jumped powerfully for a nearby fire escape. Two more leaps and they were in a skyscraper rooftop garden, looking down at the destruction of and around Times Square. The sounds of ambulances continued below, fainter as they rose, and the screams of subway riders no longer reached. All around them were fuzzy-looking shrubberies in concrete planters lined with green LEDs. A few stone benches, with more green lights around their feet. The sky was darkened with the smoke from Union Square Park, and everything was lit from below. An eerie, otherworldly atmosphere.

Saber held Jass to himself, one hand strong on her shoulder, the other hand stroking her hair and caressing her scalp. His narrow chest was firm and warm through the light material of his tunic.

"Master," he said, softly, slowly, as a thumb found her neck and brushed her earlobe, "I will play my music and keep us safe. While I play, there is something you need to decide."

Jass nodded, tingling. She had an idea, and wasn't too surprised when Lancer materialized before her, dressed in a thin white gown. The arrows were gone, but her flesh was still torn in a dozen places, blood visible beneath the translucent fabric.

Saber pulled back, leaving Jass cold in the night air, and produced his lyre.

"I'm sorry," Lancer started to say, regret clear in her eyes.

Jass stopped her with a finger on her lips. Lancer's form shuddered, glowing bright blue.

"You don't have time," Jass said.

"No," Lancer replied, smiling for Jass's understanding, a sad smile. "I'll cut to the chase, then. I'd like to see the end of this war, but I need a Master, and I need mana." Her gaze pierced Jass. "I think—I think your wish will suit me just fine. I always was a rebel. If we make it to the end, I will go before your king, content in my knowledge that human history will forever be changed at your hand."

Jass looked to Saber, who sat on a bench, strumming his lyre with his eyes closed. He had no complaints, no warnings. She looked back to Lancer, and nodded.

"So I ask you," said Lancer, drawing up to her full height, her smile changing character as her eyes blazed blue, "are you my Master?"

Jass nodded again, then remembered the word she'd said to Saber in Jerry's office. An important word, the word Onson had used to kill Bobsom. The only word she could think to say when offered a tool capable of turning the world upside down. "Yes."

The roses on her left hand surged with power, shining red, and then it was done. Lancer's body began to disintegrate.

"I can't maintain my form," she explained in wispy breaths as she crumbled.

"As the fire burns within me, so shall you burn strong at my side," Jass replied, feeling her magic circuits activate. Power built inside her and then flowed outward, and Lancer's form stabilized. White light traced her wounds, closing them. Her ornate leather armor reshaped itself, replacing her gown, and her weapons appeared in her hands.

"It feels good to be bound to a magus," she laughed.

_It feels good to be bound to you,_ Jass thought back, and Lancer's smile brightened further.

_It could feel better,_ she returned. _Has Saber explained the most efficient method of mana transfer?_

_No_ , thought Jass, though her mind flashed to the earlier moment of bizarre intimacy with Lancer, to the images that had filled her head, and she had an idea.

_Touch, Master._ Lancer stepped forward, hands outstretched. _If I may?_

Jass's body ached. It ached from running, from crying, from being tossed by the earthquake. But it also ached with the desire she'd felt for the fake Bobsom in the fake red sportscar. Saber sat only feet away, eyes closed, crown glowing emerald in the bizarre rooftop lighting, his song of mental clarity and peace a reassurance that she had nothing to fear. So many of her aches were beyond her control. She had no remedy for the wear and tear she had experienced so far in this Grail War. But this other ache, the one she felt deeper in her body, had an answer right in front of her. She could ease it here, in Lancer's open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever else can be said of Nietzsche's oeuvre, On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense is an excellent essay about the nature of language. The cosmological vignette with which it begins, about the clever animals who invented knowing and then died a minute later, is one of the most succinct condemnations of simplistic humanism, and it wasn't far from my mind as I wrote Archer's new Master.
> 
> Anatoli is dear to me, but it was his time. I hope, at this point, that Rider is coming across suitably sinister and powerful.
> 
> As always, I look forward to your thoughts, my darling readers. <3


	22. In the Labyrinth :: K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Santa Frida, one of Jerry's first proteges comes to a conclusion.

In the Labyrinth

K

2011

 

 

"Get out, Ray," said Trevor, again, more forcefully, and Raymond retreated with a disgruntled look on his face and a limp, "sheesh." Trevor slammed the door behind him, then locked the deadbolt so that no one would stumble in and no mana would stumble out.

"What's going on?" asked Jerry. His face was cloudy.

"Are you even trying to repeat Thal?" Trevor demanded.

_Thal._

As an accomplice, Trevor had heard Jerry explain this cryptohistory ad nauseum. A remote Roman colony, isolated from its empire by natural disaster. A positive mana feedback loop, the elevation of the human race. Jerry had been training Trevor and his classmates, using the orchids as foci for their emotions, to emulate that glorious moment. They needed to trust each other, to love each other, as Thal's inhabitants had.

"What are you getting at?"

Mel and Kathy were gone, but their pain lingered in the room, staining its mana.

"Thal was a closed system," said Trevor with certainty, though he was working on conjecture, "it had to have been. People didn't just leave Thal if they got depressed. The bonds of mana would remain, weakened by distance but unsevered."

"Absolutely right," said Jerry. "Sharp as ever, Trevor."

"You knew?" asked Trevor.

"Of course."

"And you just kicked people out."

"What would you have me do?" asked Jerry.

"Whatever they did in Thal," said Trevor. "They must have had some kind of counselor, some kind of elder or something, who talked to folks with issues and made everything better." He paused for a breath. "Man, you knew all this?" Jerry's face darkened, but Trevor had to say it, had to call him on his shit. That was his duty as his assistant. "I think you're just playing with people."

"Interesting," said Jerry. He stepped up to Trevor. "So you're out, I take it?"

"Yes."

"That's a shame." Jerry sighed. "But with your encouragement, I'll show you what Thal would have done with Melissa James."

Jerry calmly closed the blinds and reached into the drawer beneath the burner on which Mel had made a hundred pots of tea.

The bulb of dread in the back of Trevor's mind, a nagging suspicion that Jerry was maybe a cruel scientist with a god complex rather than a friendly guy who wanted to make life on Earth better by repeating Thal's experiment, rapidly blossomed into a full-grown orchid of terror. His sweaty hands were fumbling with the deadbolt when Jerry's knife found the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These moments are captured in the nature of the space.
> 
> Also in the nature of the space is closedness.
> 
> Protip: when trying to escape a labyrinth, do not ask the minotaur for directions.


	23. 12 - Transfer and Overflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C/W explicit and lengthy sex scene.
> 
> Jass experiences her first mana transfer.

Jass forgot the cold night air, so warm was the mana flowing between herself and Lancer as they disrobed. Jass pulled her clothes off in quick, efficient movements; Lancer dematerialized hers. She didn't pause to admire Lancer's body as she rushed into her arms, crushing her breasts against the taller woman's ribs. Strong, rough hands ran down Jass's back, pausing just above her butt.

"I will honor your fallen comrades," Lancer whispered in Jass's ear, breath hot and moist.

Those were the perfect words for Jass, and she surrendered herself to her new Servant.

She had never been with a woman before; despite awareness of her own bisexuality, the opportunity had never presented itself. No, she remembered—in that first week, before Bobsom had joined the study group, stealing kisses with Karli in a stairwell. And the kissing had continued throughout the semester. But despite the real love that had smoldered behind those kisses, they were still chaste somehow, platonic almost: a physical sign of the emotional investment between two of Jerry's treasured proteges. Most of them had exchanged physical intimacy uncommon amongst "normal" friends, with lingering, tight hugs the lightest expression. She had held Raul's hand, brushed Rey's hair, made Anatoli moan during massages. Jerry had encouraged this behavior, noting that to truly grow their mana pools in concert they needed to overcome societal hangups around touch. Still, Bobsom was the only one of the group that she'd taken romantically, sexually, and her only other sexual experiences had been the summer after high school, hometown boys she had no plans to see again.

_I've been a magus for less than a day_ , she communicated to Lancer, expressing her inexperience.

_I'll show you the forms,_ came Lancer's confident reply. Her hands dropped further, fingers sinking into the bouncy flesh of Jass's ass.

Jass tried to not feel guilt about her excitement as Lancer's fingers brushed her skin with more finesse than Bobsom's ever had. The jostling of her butt cheeks sent tremors throughout her thighs and crotch, and her anticipation grew with the warm sensation in her chest. Bobsom had always cared for her pleasure, but he was clumsy, out of touch with his own body and, by extension, hers. Lancer's touch was gentle but deliberate, drawing out the sensation in each contact. An eager sigh caught on Jass's lips. _Saber._

She'd never had an audience before, outside the group.

_Pay me no mind, Master_ , he replied telepathically. Jass looked over Lancer's shoulder to see Saber sitting still, his head inclined, eyes closed. He strummed his lyre with tantalizing movements, selecting notes that seemed to perfectly accompany Lancer's fingers. _The old rituals are effective, and pleasurable._ He didn't say it, but Jass felt the implied follow-up: _feel no shame._ She took herself out of the moment briefly to remember that despite King David's hallowed place in Biblical lore, he had presided over an Israel in touch with pre-Christian mores, one characterized by magic, evil spirits, ritual sacrifice, and a bizarre fear of shellfish.

Lancer's fingers brought her back, one hand wedged under a butt cheek with one finger resting comfortably on Jass's perineum, the other traveling up to grab the hair at the base of her neck. And then Lancer was pulling Jass's head back and bending down to kiss her.

The pirate's tongue ravaged Jass's mouth, tracing her teeth and gums, wrestling her own tongue back into a corner. Traded saliva built up and dribbled down Jass's chin before turning to steam on her fiery skin. She felt herself grow wetter, Lancer's finger moving slickly below. Jass couldn't remember feeling hotter. Never had her rage burned as bright as this desire. She could see the mana rippling off her arms, flowing into Lancer. She felt it surging from her face, lips to lips, nose to nose, every bridge between herself and the pirate a conduit of magical energy. She had no rubric against which to compare the amount of energy she was dispensing, but it seemed tremendous. The pulsing lights were visible even with her eyes closed.

Unbidden, Jerry's angelic face reared behind her lids, followed by the sensation she'd had in Anatoli's dorm room the night before, the sensation of the orchids. The love and meaning cultivated in their study group had been at its most concentrated in Anatoli, and his death had released it. It wasn't just that Jass felt like she was overflowing: she overflowed.

Jass opened her eyes. Significance given magical form poured forth from her soul, filling Lancer until she glowed, skin radiant, hair blazing red, the air lighter around her form. Lancer beamed, and Jass gasped as she took in the other woman's celestial appearance. This, too, was an opportunity she'd not had before, never would have had without the Grail War. Bedding a magical hero.

"Lancer—" she began, suddenly in awe, ashamed of her own puny mortality, her dull fleshy form.

"Call me Grace," said Lancer, cutting her off with a thumb over her lips. The hand that had been under Jass's ass retreated and snaked back to the front of her body, trailing up her belly to her left breast. The thumb on Jass's lips sought entry, and Jass allowed it, hungrily sucking it into her mouth.

"Bite," instructed Lancer, and Jass did, gently. "BITE," repeated Lancer, frustration briefly flashing across her shining face.

Jass bit down, hard, and Lancer purred. Gratified, Jass popped the thumb out of her mouth and twisted her head to bite Lancer's wrist, right at the base of her thumb. She'd always loved when Anatoli gave her hand and finger massages, never more than in that one spot, and the gamble paid off as Lancer's grip on her breast eased, the pirate stepping back to regain her balance after a throaty moan.

"I like a biter," Lancer breathed, stepping back up to Jass and grabbing her face with both hands. "Learning such was the only good to come of my meeting with that old cunt Elizabeth."

"I'll bite anything you want," Jass offered, blushing at the awkward nature of her attempt at mid-coital flirtation.

"Good," said Lancer, and she guided Jass to her chest.

"Does that… hurt?" Jass asked, her own hands finally on Lancer's body, one on the underside of each breast. They were soft and heavy, hanging apart. The pirate's nipples were pierced with ornate barbells, made of some expensive-looking metal and tipped on each end with small gems. The jewelry sat snug against the woman's areolae, a good length of nipple jutting past it.

"A few days a month," Lancer replied, a hint of a laugh on her lips, "back when I was alive."

Jass nodded dumbly. Her right hand moved to Lancer's left nipple, and she gingerly pulled upward.

Lancer laughed fully.

"I'm made of stern stuff, lass."

A number of cues helped Jass relax into the moment. Speaking instead of using telepathy. Lancer revealing her name in front of Saber. But it was abandoning the "Master" that tipped Jass over the edge of hesitation, as if the intimacy of the moment finally registered. She laughed, too, felt her own sexual excitement double as she tweaked and twisted Lancer's nipples, feeling them grow bigger and harder between her fingers.

Lancer bit the top of Jass's ear as the girl administered to her breasts, and that's when it really clicked for Jass. A warm tingle shot through her head, ear to ear, then swept over her scalp. She drooled as she leaned forward the final inches and took Lancer's nipple in her mouth. Without a second thought, she bit down, hard, teeth brushing the barbell. A gasping moan from Lancer rewarded her. Her earlier images of Lancer in control disappeared. She wanted to make the woman moan again, again, a thousand times. She attacked, pushing forward with her whole body and ramming the taller woman against one of the concrete planters, shrubbery scratching her back and tangling with her hair. She bit once, twice, then switched to Lancer's other nipple as her hands traveled up and down the pirate's sides.

Jass wasn't a fitness nut. She was soft, and so had been all her men. Lancer, on the other hand, despite her generous curves and heavy breasts, was ripped and toned, her sides and abs taut and hard. Jass marveled at the mythic hero's muscles as she traced them, all the while nibbling, sucking, and biting one nipple or the other. Lancer's powerful body seemed to push back against Jass's every touch, effortlessly strong and resilient. This wasn't better than the acceptance of gentler flesh, but it was novel, and Jass played with it, exploring the other woman's body, searching for weakness, points of entry.

Lancer's hands had abandoned Jass, now resting on the edge of the planter, barely supporting her as she withstood the storm of attention, panting. Jass marveled at the heat in Lancer's flesh, the fire beneath the skin, and then she remembered that this was her heat. Her fire. She'd thought they were still at second base, but in reality, she was already inside Lancer, permeating her core.

The realization made her next step that much more logical. Without a word, without easing her assault on the pirate's bejeweled nipples, she dropped one hand to Lancer's crotch, feeling the fiery red curls of her pubic hair before making contact with her vulva. Moisture sizzled as she rubbed Lancer's lips in broad strokes, eliciting further moans.

"Tell me, Grace," Jass said, lifting her head from the woman's breast, "is the mana transfer more effective if you cum?"

Lancer looked down at her with bemusement in her eyes. "Cum?" She looked pensive, then she groaned and her eyes rolled up as Jass's middle finger slid into her pussy. "Yes. Yes, that is the euphemism of your era." Jass moved her finger subtly, searching for the spots that she enjoyed the times she was penetrated.

"And it's more effective?"

"Yes, lass, for fuck's sakes, yes!"

Jass grinned wickedly, feeling more in control, sexier than she'd felt in any other encounter. Men were boring, she decided, refusing to moan, either mutedly ashamed of their orgasms as Bobsom had been or too focused on them like some of her previous lays. This lusty woman, thrashing powerfully in her arms, unabashedly feeling and seeking her own pleasure, suited Jass. She pressed on, pushing another finger past the folds of Lancer's lips, probing for the rough texture on the roof of her vagina. Lancer was now leaning back with only one hand propping her up. The other was furiously mashing her own right breast. Jass returned to playing roughly with Lancer's left nipple, occasionally pulling back to tease it with gentle licks, and it didn't take long for Lancer's breathing to speed up, her body tensing as she approached orgasm.

"Fuck, you're hot in me," Lancer breathed, and Jass noticed that her mana was concentrated in her fingers, sending sparks up into the pirate.

"Are you okay?" she asked, worried about accidentally using fire magic inside her Servant's pussy.

"The best I've ever taken it," was Lancer's reply, her body confirming the words as fluids gushed around Jass's fingers. Lancer tensed again, tightening on Jass's fingers, and then she bucked, throwing Jass's face from her tit as she rode a shuddering orgasm.

Jass stepped back, gently withdrawing her fingers, noticing that she was breathing as heavily as Lancer. As the pirate recovered, Jass idly touched her own pussy, feeling her wetness with her dry hand. She had loved sex with Bobsom, had loved him and enjoyed celebrating that love physically, but she had never been this excited. She'd never given such a powerful, sexy woman an orgasm, and watching Lancer catch her breath sent shivers down her spine.

"Did that work?" she asked, part hopeful that she'd succeeded at the mana transfer, part worried that her own relief wouldn't be on the menu if she had, part embarrassed that this was a consideration at the forefront of her mind now, in the middle of the drama of the Holy Grail War. She'd have plenty of time to masturbate or fuck once the world had been turned upside down.

These thoughts were cut short when Lancer opened her eyes and smiled lazily.

"That was wonderful, but the best conveyer of mana is bodily fluid." Her voice was smug, seductive. "I'm told I boast to excess, but never on this front. The Pirate Queen's got a bodacious tongue."

Jass felt herself tremble with excitement. "How should we do this?"

"You did a number on me," said Lancer, pushing herself upright. "I'd like to enjoy the laze." She slunk to the nearest unoccupied bench and sat down, legs spread. Jass gulped at the sight of her engorged vulva. "Come straddle my chops."

Jass obeyed, stepping up onto the bench, standing with her legs spread on either side Lancer's shoulders, crotch an inch from the other woman's nose.

"You've a mighty pleasant smell, lass." With that, Lancer buried her face in Jass's pussy, not bothering with the gentle introductory kisses she'd always needed from Bobsom before cunnilingus. She was ready, and Lancer knew. The comment drew her attention to the scent of her pussy—a scent that had occasionally embarrassed her—but appreciation for the compliment overpowered self-consciousness and she stood tall, thrusting gently forward against Lancer's mouth. Strong licks coated her pussy lips in saliva, and then the tip of Lancer's tongue probed her clit. Pleasure shot upward through her body. She was more than ready.

She closed her eyes and focused on the sensation of Lancer's tongue parting her lips, brushing back against her clit, flicking it back and forth, rolling it, then gasped when Lancer sucked it into her mouth, an entirely new sensation. Her orgasm was building quickly. Lancer switched to sucking her labia fully into her mouth, holding her entire sex there, then renewed her ministrations to Jass's clit.

"Oh fuck," she moaned, uncontrollably. "Graaace…"

Jass felt her juices flowing into Lancer's mouth, felt her mana flowing into Lancer's mouth, and the sensation of emptying herself between the pirate's lips sent her over the edge. She had a screaming, leg-shaking orgasm, clinging to Lancer's head, her ass held up in one of Lancer's hands, knees knocking against Lancer's breasts. She whimpered as Lancer brought her down, lowering her onto the bench, smile comically wide. Jass smiled back, still shaken by the pitch of her own orgasm.

Then reality hit. The air was cold, the bench freezing. Jass's heat was gone, her fire reduced to embers and ashes in her soul. She shivered, and before she could say anything, Lancer had fetched her clothes and begun dressing her.

"I mayhap took more than absolutely necessary," Lancer admitted as she stuffed Jass's legs into her jeans, "but it was famine to feast after my previous Master."

Jass didn't know what, if anything, she should say to this woman who had just given her the best orgasm of her life. A powerful woman who had controlled her pleasure handily, but a powerful woman who was her Servant, a mythic pirate called by magic into this era to fight for a wish-granting Grail. The pleasure they'd shared had been genuine, but it had also been utilitarian. Charging a battery. Saber's tune ended in the background as Lancer rematerialized her armor and stretched. The moment was over. Lancer was moving on, flexing her powers, materializing a variety of oldschool firearms and examining them.

Jass sighed as she zipped up her hoodie and leaned forward on the bench. The reprieve had been welcome, but so brief.

She noticed Saber looking at her, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Would something like this help you, too?"

Saber shook his head, sadly, slowly. "Maybe. But it's not necessary. I am receiving adequate mana from you through our bond alone." He paused, examining the sly look on Jass's face. He continued telepathically. _I had many wives, and I did my duty before the Lord, but my heart is forever Jonathan's._

Jass nodded in silence, ashamed of herself for her assumption, unclear on the power dynamics between herself and these legends.

"I always loved a good fight after a good fuck," Lancer said, unprompted, breaking through the doubts. "Ready to kick some Caster ass?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To lay my cards on the table, this is only the second hardcore sex scene I have written in my entire life. I have little confidence in my skill here. I did my best to avoid purple prose and stupid euphemisms, to simply describe the mechanics and the feelings, while preserving actions and dynamics that I hope my readers will find at least mildly erotic. (This may be TMI but I'm a big cunnilingus person.)
> 
> That said, feedback is welcome! I am not above editing this if it proves lackluster.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading :3


	24. In the Labyrinth :: L

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the semester, Karli notices a glitch.

In the Labyrinth

L

September 12

 

 

The door clicked shut, and Jerry was gone. Bathroom break.

"So how much of this do you think is real?" Onson asked, conspiratorially.

"What do you mean?" Anatoli didn't look up from his Boethius as he spoke, his tone flat, bored.

"Come on," said the Swedish kid, silly grin wide on his face.

Karli and Jass watched in silence as the new arrival pressed onward. It was late, the last daylight fading outside. It was just the four of them at this moment. Raul and Bobsom were at their Monster Hearts group, and Rey was probably off cupcaking with some chick named Bren.

"Seriously." Onson looked from Anatoli to Jass to Karli, searching for a foothold. "Magic? Storing our mana in these flowers? How much of it do you believe?"

For Karli, it seemed a hard question to answer. She wasn't ignoring Onson on purpose; she simply didn't know. Common sense precluded every conclusion Jerry had come to, but he'd been doing this for years, and she didn't see the harm in participating in his experiment. Of course, that wasn't enough. He'd asked for faith, for a buy-in, for an intentionality to the participation. So yes, she believed. In all of it. But how real was that belief?

The room emitted a soft groan.

Anatoli looked up, locked eyes with Onson.

"It's all real," he said. Karli nodded. "And unless you want to end up like Trevor, you'd do well to accept that."

"Uhhhh… okaaay," said Onson carefully, with maybe too much hesitation.

Karli couldn't blame him, though. _Who was Trevor?_

Anatoli frowned, then shook his head.

"Sorry, Onson, I don't know what came over me. I think I didn't get enough sleep last night. The one downside of having an awesome roommate."

"Who's Trevor?" asked Onson.

"Who?" asked Anatoli.

The doorknob turned and clicked. Jerry was back. Karli somehow knew that the question would never be answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onson has consistently been the inquisitive one. It's his only strength 🙃


	25. 13 - The Geas Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C/W potentially disturbing mind control/non-con elements; no sex acts.
> 
> Karli is well-prepared for Jass's advance. Rey visits Onson and Raul.

The ball of wings in the corner began screeching ten minutes before Karli's door splintered beneath the weight of Saber's giant sword.

Ten minutes was plenty.

"Hostile magus on the priphery of our territory," Caster had said, interpreting the angel's nightmarish vocalizations. Eyes closed, he had focused before continuing. "Twenty years old, female. Two Servants accompanying."

 _Two Servants and a strange Magus?_ Karli had asked telepathically.

Caster had assembled a mirror out of thin air, produced a moving image in it. Jass Bonzalez, striding purposefully toward Coral Tower.

One minute to process the shock that Jass was a magus.

Another minute to calm her nerves, remember that her wish was more important than their friendship. Jerry had forced them into this weird relationship and then abandoned them. None of it registered on the scales of history, of legend. Here she was, with Jesus Christ at her side and a powerful desire in her heart:

 

[ . . . what was it ? ]

 

With three minutes remaining before Jass would reach the center of Caster's territory, Karli had observed her through Caster's mirror. Standing impatiently in the lobby, waiting for the elevator up, her face flushed from the night air… and not just the night air. Her hair was just so, her clothes slightly out of alignment. This was that post-Bobsom look, the freshly fucked Jass Karli had enjoyed kissing on so many occasions, the freshly fucked Jass Karli would never kiss again.

The elevator hadn't arrived for Jass, and she'd grown impatient. Running at superhuman speed, dropping cinders in her wake, she'd sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

In those last two minutes, Caster had placed one of the orchids by the dorm room door and chanted a rapid incantation that Karli couldn't follow. Then he'd stepped back, arms crossed, admiring his handiwork.

When the door shattered, the orchid shriveled to a crisp, and the room elongated, forked, spread out, and twisted in Escherian patterns.

"This is a biased vessel," Caster had explained before setting the trap. "It will be easiest to create a specific kind of space using its mana."

Now Karli and Caster stood at the center of a kaleidoscoping space, a thousand entrances and exits spinning around them in more colors than Karli knew existed. The shattered door was in another life, another dimension, and Jass and her Servants were snared in the empyrean labyrinth that had spewed forth from Jerry's orchid. Karli held Caster's hand, focusing her mind for stability in the maddening room. Everywhere, Caster's angel assistants flitted about. Their bizarre forms were no longer terrifying when placed against this backdrop. Freakish shrill toots emanated from this passageway or that as they scouted the branching paths.

A gentle stringed melody responded, only briefly, and then died out.

Somewhere in the distance, Karli heard gun shots, roaring flames, the clash of arms. The trumpets and claws were meeting Saber's sword. Karli's grip tightened on Caster's hand.

"Will they win?"

One day earlier, Caster would have said "believe that they will," and he would have held her hand and prayed alongside her for deliverance and victory. He was changed, however, and in his other hand already gripped his cat-o'-nine-tails. He shook his head.

"Their job is to befuddle our foes. The landscape will weaken them. But it is I who will drive them from your temple."

He moved to leave, but Karli's hold on him was strong.

"Be steady, Master." Caster didn't meet her eyes when he spoke, anymore. "None should reach you in the core of the labyrinth. If you feel danger, call my name and use a Command Seal."

"I feel danger now," she said.

One day earlier, Caster would have reassured her with pious niceties. Now he simply wrenched his hand from hers. She remembered that they had a plan, that it was good. Jass would concede or die in the labyrinth.

Time passed strangely in the ever-mutating orchidspace. Karli felt one hour, two slip away as she stared at the back of her right hand, at the red nails painted there. She felt Caster's bond to her tighten as a tether pulled to its maximum allowance, taut and straining. The tightening spread to her body, to her muscles, to her lungs. When she thought she could take no more, like a rubber band he sprang back to her, zooming through the polychromatic tunnels of the labyrinth with a speed and certainty that seemed impossible.

He was bloodied when he returned, but he moved with ease, and his voice belied no fear or doubt as he announced that he had won.

"Jass?" Karli asked, her heart hollow.

"Lives," said Caster.

"So we're two Servants closer to our wishes," Karli beamed. She couldn't wait for

 

[ . . . what was it ? ]

 

"No," said Caster, frowning. "The enemy Servants knew my identity, and refused to fight. They resorted to politics in an effort to pull us to their side, to submit our wishes to theirs. I held strong, as I always have against deceiving monarchs. Your friend was the only one who would fight, and when it became clear that she could not best me, she fled."

Karli tried to imagine Jass throwing punches at Jesus Christ while two other heroic spirits looked on helplessly, but failed. It was too absurd a tableau to picture.

"That sucks. What was their wish?"

"To create on Earth a global utopia of economic democracy for all."

"That doesn't sound so bad," said Karli.

Caster glared, but said nothing. Karli thought she understood. Jass's goal seemed decadent, focused on this life rather than the next. She'd yet to hear Caster's wish, but if he was as pious as he claimed, she had some guesses. And even if he'd been amenable to an alliance, to sublimating his own desire for that of Jass, Karli couldn't see herself entering any kind of agreement. Her own wish was too strong, her own need for

 

[ . . . what was it ? ]

 

The kaleidoscope collapsed in on itself and Caster's frown deepened.

"The vessel is emptied," he said, indicating the shriveled orchid on the floor.

Karli understood. This particular defense was one and done.

"How did they get away?" she asked. "Didn't your territory baffle them?"

"Using a high-ranking Noble Phantasm of penetration, they pierced the walls and escaped." Caster sat heavily in the middle of the room and put his palms on the floor. "Lancer is slippery. What's your next order?"

Karli took stock of their position in the war. Caster's angel scouts had combed the city, gathering information on the others. Berserker and Assassin were dead, Raul and Onson out of the running. Archer seemed to still be active despite Bobsom's passing. Saber and Lancer were with Jass. That left

 

[ . . . what was it ? ]

 

She shook her head. It was the stress of the war, of losing her friends, of losing Jerry. It was hard to focus, hard to remember every detail. She hadn't been sleeping, either, too afraid of

 

[ . . . what was it ? ]

 

"Master?" Caster was standing, finally looking Karli in the eye, fortifying her with his gaze.

"I'm fine," she lied. "We're fine. We still have two orchids and only three enemies remaining." The plan laid itself out before her, infuriatingly simple. "We find and defeat Archer. Then Saber and Lancer will be forced to return to our territory if they want to end the war."

Caster's eyes, eyes that had held nothing but resentment for a day, softened.

"What?" Karli blinked. "Can we not defeat Archer?"

"We can defeat Archer," said Caster slowly. "But—"

"But what?"

"There's another—"

Karli didn't interrupt Caster. She didn't need to. He simply became silent. His mouth moved, his hands gesticulated, but none of it meant anything. This was the tragedy she'd wrought upon him with her earlier demands. By forcing him to admit his human past, his heroic spirit essence, she'd wrenched him from the divine and shattered the trueness of his faith. Now he was broken, a man all airs and no substance, a poor performance of his previous piety. She'd wanted Caster a magus, and now he was nothing but a magus left behind by Jesus Christ. And he malfunctioned like this, occasionally losing to even his bizarro familiars when it came to comprehensibility.

His lips stopped wagging, and he averted his gaze.

"Welcome back," Karli said, surprised with herself for the tone of her voice, her sneer. "Now let's go kill Archer."

Caster opened his mouth again. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Karli sighed and pushed past him, making for the door.

"Now."

She opened the door and marched out into the hallway, the shell of Caster trailing dejectedly behind her.

 

# # #

 

Onson awoke in the middle of the night to an urgent rapping.

He was spooning Raul, pressed tightly together in Anatoli's small bed. He tried to disentangle himself gently, but there was no avoiding the jostle, and Raul awoke.

"Sup?"

"Someone's at the door."

"Shit, wonder who."

Onson didn't know, and couldn't imagine it was anything good. Anatoli and Jass would have simply let themselves in. Anyone else was either unrelated to the Grail War—maybe an RA, investigating a noise complaint, and they'd get in trouble for the busted furniture—or an enemy. The two exchanged a worried nod, and then Raul sprang up and stalked softly over to the door.

He peered through the peephole for only a moment before jumping back and throwing the door open.

"Jerry!" he exclaimed, in surprise and awe and joy, utterly confusing Onson.

The consensus was that Jerry was dead, and there was no Jerry in the doorway. What _Onson_ saw was—he blinked. This was a dream. He was still asleep. Why would there be two Reys?

Raul was already moving, arms flung wide.

"We thought you dead," he said, embracing the nearer Rey.

Onson felt himself hardening as that Rey hugged Raul back. The hug was too hot, too heavy. Rey's hands were on Raul's ass. She was pushing all of herself up against him. She wasn't dressed for the middle of a November night, either: she wore a thin gray and white striped tee and the pair of flimsy running shorts she'd pushed to the side the one time she'd almost let Onson eat her. Her exposed arms and legs glowed a faint red.

The other Rey was dressed more sensibly, in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with a puffy vest. But something was off about her, too—her hair was in two braids, a style Onson hadn't seen her wear in the three months they'd known each other, and she wasn't wearing her glasses. And for all of the skimpily dressed Rey's fervor in embracing Raul, the other simply stood back with a blank look on her face.

Onson's confused boner faded as he took in one more detail: the red smudge on the back of the second Rey's right hand. It was the same smear of color left behind on his own hand when he'd used his Command Seals.

As the gears began to turn, Raul broke free from the embrace, panting, and looked at Onson.

"What a relief, huh?"

Raul's joy was genuine. He didn't seem the least bit confused about the presence of two Reys. And what was that about Jerry?

"We all thought you dead," Raul continued, turning back to the lightly dressed Rey, taking her hand.

She smiled at him. "Here I am," she said, in Rey's voice but Jerry's cadence, that way of speaking that was only one step away from a hum.

"Raul, that's not Jerry."

"Why can't I be Jerry?" Rey pouted. "I just want to make the princess happy."

Raul stiffened.

"The fuck, Jerry."

Onson was backing away from the Reys, away from Raul. This wasn't the sexy dream it had first billed itself as. Raul's expression was dark, furious. He let Rey's hand go in an aggressive gesture and balled up his fists. This was the beginning of a nightmare, Onson decided, the beginning of a nightmare. If it wasn't a nightmare, it had to be reality.

The other Rey, the one hanging back with the smudge on her hand, was listless. She stood with her shoulders slumped, looking at nothing.

"My Master has a wish," said the nearer Rey, patiently, almost cloyingly. "We're to bring joy to all the world's princesses."

"Fucking don't," said Raul.

"Don't what?"

"Don't fucking call me that."

Onson's confusion deepened. He'd never seen Raul so upset. To go off simply on being called a princess seemed extreme. Was it a homophobia thing? No, that didn't make sense. That would have emerged on any of the countless occasions Raul had kissed him, Bobsom, or Anatoli.

"I fear I must," insisted the nearer Rey. "For I greet the world as it is, and you, my darling, you are one of the most pleasant sights to behold: a true prin—"

Raul threw a punch.

"Where'd you find this faker, Rey?" he seethed.

Onson followed his gaze. He was addressing the other Rey. No, that wasn't quite right. There was only one Rey to address. The Rey he'd punched was gone, replaced with a tall figure in a white suit.

Rey responded slowly, raising her head to make eye contact with the boys. Her mouth hung open, somewhere between slack and sexy. After a long moment, she smiled, euphoria filling her face. "He found me," she said. The words were like molasses, slow to spill forth and rich, sweet. "He's no faker. Everything Jerry wanted to be. A perfect man."

Raul spat on the floor. "A perfect man wouldn't—" He stopped and shook his head. "Just go."

The tall figure in white laughed.

"I'm afraid we're staying."

Onson's heart sank.

"Who even are you?" Raul asked angrily.

"Doesn't he look familiar?" Onson made his voice soft, gentle. He'd seen this person once before. They all had. Emerging from blue light in Jerry's office.

"Fuck."

Onson put a hand on Raul's shoulder. Somehow he wasn't afraid. The Grail War had been a rollercoaster of emotion, and this one encounter had already equaled the rest in how confusing it had been. He had nothing left. No more cowardice. Just resignation.

"What do you want?" he asked evenly. "We're not Masters anymore."

"Indeed. Though I should note, to eulogize her valiant effort, your Assassin gave me a run for my money."

Onson smiled despite himself. "I guess I should thank you."

"I am a hero, after all." The man in white with the indiscernible face chuckled. "I suppose introductions are in order. I am a Servant of the Rider Class, and this is my fiancée."

"Onson Sweemey."

" _Raul_ ," spat Raul.

"I apologize if my initial entrance was uncouth. I tend to put chivalry before clarity. A habit of mine for centuries."

Neither Onson nor Raul said anything. Rey had gone back to being a lifeless figure in the corner.

"To answer your question, I suppose the simplest explanation is that you're my hostages."

"Not so gallant."

"Ah, my darling, you test me." Rider went to one knee before Raul. "How can I make this better for you?"

"Could fucking leave," said Raul.

"If your joy is my absence, you'll know it soon enough." Rider stood and moved to Rey's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Between one and three more princesses must fall, unfortunately, but, when they do, and your friend here takes the Grail, you'll know a previously unknown bliss. I won't impose on you beyond that point."

"Fuck that," said Raul, sticking his hands into his pockets. "You're not gettin' the Grail."

Onson didn't see a way out. Raul's spunk was admirable, but what could they do? Hostages were hostages. Rider had them in the palm of his hand, and soon he would use them as tools against Jass. How could that be avoided? Onson looked ruefully at the mark where his Command Seals had been the day before. He had forfeited his rights as a Master, squandered them out of spite and cowardice.

But he wasn't the only one. He looked at Rey, at her hand. She, too, had given up her seals.

"What do _you_ think of all this, Rey?"

She again raised her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze with an intense desire. "I've… wanted to be happy for a long time, Sonion. … My Prince knows… how to make me happy."

Rider nodded.

"And he's generous, Sonion. You're not a princess, but you should still get something for your troubles." She went on her tiptoes to whisper something in Rider's ear. He nodded again, and she turned back to Onson. "Me. You may fuck me, Sonion."

Onson felt a surge of desire shoot across his resignation.

Suddenly loquacious, Rey kept going. "I'm his, first, of course, but you can have second dibs. Anytime I'm not with him. My body is yours. Anywhere. Really, anywhere. Where would you like to fuck me, Sonion? Ah, of course. Over Jerry's desk, yeah? Swimming in that room's mana, your cock deep in me. Like Jass and Bobsom, but you'd pound me better, right? Bobsom wasn't a good fuck. You could see it in her eyes. You'd do me right. You've wanted me for months."

He had.

"Just clear your throat, Sonion. I'll drop my pants and turn around. Walk up to me and stick it in. No matter what I'm up to. I'll be happy, and you deserve it."

Onson's throat was tight, his mouth dry. He'd love all of them, but Rey had been special. Special and off limits. Raul's hand was on his shoulder.

"No," he said, his body raging against him as he denied the offer.

"No?" Rey began unbuttoning her pants. "We can start now."

"No!" yelled Onson. Raul pulled him into a hug. That, he deserved. He was being good. But he didn't deserve what Rey was offering. No one could deserve what Rey was offering. "No one is entitled to other people's bodies," he said sadly. "And I also don't believe that you want to offer this."

"What are you talking about?" laughed Rey. "I've always had a major free use fetish."

Her pants were gone, her boxers around her knees. She turned slightly away from Onson, leaning on Rider's shoulder, the curve of her butt sticking out beneath her vest.

Onson didn't say anything more, opting to stay in the moment of Raul's hug. His dick pressed against Raul's abs, and he just tried not to hate himself for the crush he'd always had on his lesbian friend. That part of him wanted to accept this offer was natural. That he refused it was crucial. He closed his eyes, whispered _sorry_ to Raul. Raul moved one hand up to grip the back of Onson's head.

"Don't apologize."

"Hey, maybe denial will make it all the sweeter when you finally get up in these guts." Rey kicked off her underwear and flopped down on Anatoli's bed. "You won't have much else to do before the war is over."

Onson kept his eyes closed as he and Raul collapsed to the floor, holding onto each other for dear life.

Rider sighed. "Your friends are weird, my love."

Onson counted the seconds, waiting for everything to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> Unlike the previous, this chapter had a lot of unhappy people in it. Hope it's not too much of a bummer. But also, I hope that I'm successfully making yall worry about these kids ;)
> 
> This one was a lot of fun to write. Dejected!Caster is an interesting actor. Karli and Rey are an excellent pair. And Onson making a good decision for once was very satisfying, as he'd been getting a bit of a bad rep despite being, at his core, a good boy. 🐶
> 
> Feedback welcome as always!


	26. In the Labyrinth :: M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jass suffers from lack of sleep.

In the Labyrinth

M

October 12

 

 

Sometimes the room felt crowded.

And it was—seven students and a professor crammed into a tiny office, barely leaving standing room when all the folding chairs were deployed. But the room occasionally felt both larger and somehow _more crowded_. Jass didn't know what to make of the feeling, so she never brought it up, passed it off as some kind of daydream, some kind of subconscious bloom. People feel all kinds of things.

But somehow the room felt more crowded now than ever, and it was at the same time emptier than she'd ever seen it. Jerry hummed at his desk and she stood by the window. Three of her friends had caught the flu that was going around. Two were in class. Rey was AWOL.

Jass watched as the weak midday sun tried to dry Manhattan of the morning's rain.

Fishsticks groomed himself on the sill between Rey's and Raul's orchids.

_Fishsticks?_

Jass blinked, and the tabby cat disappeared. She shouldn't have pulled two all-nighters back to back. She'd known college would be stressful, but hallucinations were too much.

"I think I need to get some rest," she announced.

"Okay," said Jerry, voice gentle, soothing. He turned from his reading to look at her. "Take care of yourself, Jass. It would suck if you got the flu too."

"You got it."

Jass shrugged her backpack on, then made for the door, dodging the others. _The others?_

There was a skinny black girl making tea, a couple white boys playing chess on the floor. _Get out of the way, shit._

She almost lost her balance trying to step over the board, but caught herself on a bookshelf.

"You really _are_ exhausted," said Jerry. "Do you want an escort home? It's not far, and my workload can certainly survive making sure you get back safe."

_An angel_ , thought Jass, though was that her thought, or was that something the tea-making girl was thinking? She rubbed her eyes, tightened her ponytail, and performed a short hop at the door to get her blood flowing. The room was empty save herself and Jerry. _And the orchids._

"I'll be okay, Jerry. Thanks though!"

"Alright, be safe now," he said, waving from his desk, and then he resumed humming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust your feelings, Jass! Jass? Jass!!  
> Oh no, she has airpods in, she can't hear us!!


	27. 14 - No Tolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert is retrieved. Jass is confronted with indolence and terrorism.

The sound of a door creaking open roused Hubert from his reverie.

Sharp footsteps descended the stairs to his darkened sanctuary. His heart raced, hot and cold, oscillating rapidly between excitement and terror. Was this his salvation? Perhaps the Basilica's custodial staff? Or were the degenerates back to have another go at him?

No, the steps didn't match his antagonists. The clack on the stone wasn't from Bonzalez's sneakers or Saber's sandals. These were stiff-soled dress shoes. Three separate pairs, by the sound of it. The steps drew nearer.

" _Lichte anmachen,_ " came a familiar voice, and then the darkness lifted.

Hubert's candle-laden alter burned bright, and in its insistent flicker he made out the faces of his colleagues. He tried to pull himself into a sitting position using his core, but merely flopped on the ground in what he was sure was an extremely undignified motion.

"They did a number on you," said Lobe Farrys.

She leaned over him, her burnt ochre suit stiff as ever. She was an old magus through and through, all ruffles, nods, and flourishes. Her family was distinguished, with lineage tracing back to before the Romans left Albion. Hubert counted her a trusted compatriot, a solid member of their Thule Society cell. Flanking her were Bennis Litzgerbald and Dalthera Garleyel. For the first time since Brexit passed in June of the previous year, Hubert felt a deep relief.

"Redlan Voss was poking around," said Dalthera, managing somehow to sound bored as she spoke.

Hubert wondered why he was still bound and bleeding on the floor.

"Lord El-Melloi II got word of our little game here, and insisted that capable magi come to New York to take over."

And he was still gagged, too, so he couldn't ask Dalthera to wait until he was more comfortable to explain the situation.

"Waters pulled some strings and now we're here. We took care of Voss."

Hubert strained against his gag, trying to make a sound clearer than a muffled whimper.

Lobe stood and walked behind Hubert, out of sight. Bennis nodded as Dalthera continued.

"There are only three Masters left, so we cast off some ballast and now we're here."

A sharp pain pierced Hubert's back. He'd been kicked. Tears reflexively welled in his eyes. He moaned against his gag, doing his best to yell, to scream. What the hell was going on?

"He's confused," offered Bennis.

"Oh. Yes. How to explain." Dalthera looked puzzled. Then a light went on behind her tired eyes. "We came to an understanding on the plane. El-Melloi wanted us to take over the war, and we realized we certainly could. Not for the Mage Association, not for Waters, but for ourselves. One of us could take the Grail." She sighed. "Why is he squirming like this? He's a triple agent, betrayal shouldn't shock him so."

Hubert tried to wriggle away, inching along the floor like the worm he'd been reduced to. Lobe stopped him with a polished shoe on his head. The heel dug into his ear. He surrendered. Whatever his colleagues wanted to do to him, they could. He was powerless.

Their instructions passed through his feverish head like so much air, and he nodded. He'd taken risks, given himself allowances, lived the life of an arrogant turncoat. He didn't want the death of an arrogant turncoat. He groveled. He understood now how Jerry had served him, despite the political disagreements, despite the disdain in his eyes.

When Bennis finally removed Hubert's gag and closed his wounds, Hubert thanked him.

"You're welcome," Bennis smiled.

Lobe and Dalthera paced erratically by the stairs, impatient to join the Holy Grail War.

Hubert was allowed to enjoy his first minute without pain, and then his labors began.

 

# # #

 

Jass was formulating an epic castigation for her Servants—how, after all of Saber's reprimanding, could _they_ be the ones who had refused to fight—when her cellphone buzzed once, twice, and then seemed to go off incessantly, exploding like Times Square had an hour earlier.

Her comrades were trying to contact her.

She had dozens of messages from Socialist Alternative members in Seattle, Boston, San Francisco, Columbus. They all wanted to know the same thing: what had happened to the Bushwick branch?

The inquiries were coming so rapidly that she had trouble reading her screen. She slogged her way to her notification settings and turned everything off, then returned to her Messenger app. The story everywhere was the same. An emergency National Committee phone meeting had been called to discuss perspectives around what was apparently being called the Wall Street Murders, and the NC members from Bushwick were unreachable, their last whereabouts unknown. In each region, full-timers for Socialist Alternative were trying to contact anyone in NYC to ask after them, for any word.

Jass knew she couldn't say anything useful. The truth—that they had been transformed into super-powered magical Cynics by a manifestation of Diogenes and then subsequently killed by her friend Raul—wouldn't go over well, even if it were believed. She turned off her phone and lit into her Servants.

"The fucking gall," she hissed. "My friends have died for this, and when we get into a real fight you just throw up your hands. Really? _Can_ the two of you even fight? You let Berserker get away, and when you faced him again, you couldn't do anything about his little orange shield! Archer—same thing! Jass, burn the park down. You pledged an alliance, but your teamwork and your commitment are clearly an afterthought. You've been two Servants against one _four times now_ and you've got _nothing_ to show."

She knew it wasn't a fair characterization. Her own hesitation had stayed Saber's blade in the dorm room when Berserker first appeared. Lancer hadn't been at full fighting strength with Anatoli as her Master. But Jass dismissed those objections, even as they came up in her head. All the more reason they should have fought tooth and claw to defeat Caster.

Jass stood alone in an alley, her Servants dematerialized from the moment she began expressing how she felt about the fiasco in Caster's maze. Convenient, to hide their faces, their shame, and to make Jass feel silly for ranting at thin air.

When she stopped and caught her breath, however, Saber was the first to acknowledge her points.

"Master," he spoke slowly, cautiously, "I must apologize, but I also request a chance to explain. My beliefs fundamentally preclude drawing steel against my descendant. My blood runs in his veins, my Lord rules his heart. He has not broken the laws of Israel, and stands as a shining messiah for my people. We must find another way to resolve this conflict."

"Fat chance of that," spat Jass. "He had no—"

"Master," tried Lancer, "he is ultimately bound by the same contract we are. Speak with his Master, if you can, and convince her to convince him. She can force his hand into alliance, if need be."

"You speak of Command Seals," whispered Saber.

A silence in the alley.

"So fighting Jesus is wrong, but compulsion via Command Seal is okay?" asked Jass, incredulous.

"It most certainly is not okay." The finality in Saber's voice was new, uncharacteristic. For all his convictions and insights, Saber was patient if nothing else. Even when Jass had dithered the previous evening, mourning Bobsom and delaying their preparations for the war, the lithe green-haired shepherd king had treated her with care. That this was where he drew the line of no tolerance spoke volumes to Jass.

But she was still frustrated with her Servants, so she rejoined with snark.

"Great, now _you're_ fighting." She sighed, and then the sigh turned into a yawn. "Maybe we all just need to sleep on this."

Neither Servant replied immediately.

"Yes," said Saber, after a pause, "perhaps sleep would do you well. You have had a long day."

Leaving Raul with the priest. Punching Onson. Going to Little Skips. Becoming a magus. Losing her comrades. Almost losing Onson to the priest. Fighting Archer. The subway disaster. Losing Anatoli. Mind-bending sex with Lancer. The mind-bending maze in which they'd fought Caster. Jass was tired. She had too much to process.

And yet, it all felt so pathetic.

"We set out to end the war," objected Jass, "But all we've done is get Anatoli killed."

"Hardly," said Saber. "We have learned information. Archer and Casters' identities. This is invaluable."

"More a shackle than anything if we get info that dissuades you from fighting."

"Master." Saber's tone was thin, weary. "War is not linear. You and Lancer can joke about booty all you want, but our task is anything but straightforward. A day survived is a day won. We know, roughly, what Archer and Caster are capable of. We have seen Rider in action. It would be wise to gather our strength and take stock of our options. It would do us no good for you to run ragged into another fight right now. Remember the importance of your wish."

Some part of Jass wanted to agree, but the fire was back, burning spitefully within her.

"Fat lot of good my wish will do if _you_ can't finish the job."

She immediately regretted digging her heels in like this. Saber didn't reply. His presence grew distant.

"Saber?"

_He needs a break,_ came the telepathic message from Lancer. _I'll keep an eye on you for now._

"What's his problem?"

And again, Jass wished she could stop herself before speaking. She knew the problem, and didn't particularly want Lancer to say it.

_You're being more than a wee bit petulant._

Jass ran a hand through her hair, then looked up and down the alley.

"I _should_ sleep."

_Aye._

"Where?"

_My old Master's room?_

"No. I can't bring the war back to Raul and Onson."

_A hotel, then?_

Jass had a debit card, some spending money. A defensible sleeping position was a good use of funds. She retrieved her cell phone and turned it on to look for a cheap option nearby. As the long start-up sequence ended and her home screen faded into view, the flood of message notifications resumed. Jass was ready to ignore them entirely when one sender's name captured her attention as none of the others had.

Mickey. _Rey._

Her heart beat faster as she tapped the notification. What did Rey want to say, now, more than a day after her entreaty to alliance? What did Rey want to say, now, after her Servant had cut Anatoli down in the street?

Jass noticed herself blinking in the stretched-out moment it took for Messenger to open. Was her love for Rey such a superficial thing, that it should vanish overnight?

When she saw Rey's message, however, her doubts dissipated immediately.

Rey had sent a photo: in a Weinstein Hall dormroom, the tall man in white standing over Raul and Onson, sword in hand. Accompanying the photo was a directive that left nothing to the imagination.

"If you want them to live, use 3 Command Seals. Order your Servant to kill himself. Return here, alone, when he's dead. You have four hours."

Rey had sent the message just past midnight. Now it was twelve thirty. The clock was ticking.

"Change of plans," said Jass.

"What's up?" asked Lancer.

"Don't have time to sleep. Rider has my friends hostage."

Lancer materialized behind Jass, peering over her shoulder at the photo Rey had sent.

"Base," she spat. "But, I have to say, a good effort."

"What do I do?"

"Sleep," said Lancer.

"What?!"

"You think their safety is guaranteed if you comply?" Lancer shook her head sadly. "The only thing guaranteed is you'd lose Saber, and you'd take one step away from winning the Grail."

"So we go in, beat Rider, and free them before we run out of time."

"Bad idea," said Lancer. "Trust me lass, I've been on both sides of this kind of situation in my life. Your friends know you for your sense of justice. Doubtless, a dashing rescue attempt on your part is what they expect. They'll be prepared for it."

"So I should just let Rider kill the rest of my friends?"

"I won't mince words. You and your friends were dead from the moment you summoned us."

Jass felt herself turning red, the blood pulsing at her temples, the fires building in her soul.

"Don't glare so, lass. None of you were magi, none of you knew what you were getting into. Those of you who are still alive have made it this far on luck and grace." Lancer gave a half-hearted chuckle at the use of her own name. "The fewer liabilities you have, the more likely you are to emerge on the other end. The bonds you share with your friends are like those I shared with my husbands, lovers, and children: they are weaknesses for your enemies to exploit."

"Like your bond with Jesus Christ?" Jass's voice was raised.

"He's God, for fuck's sakes." Lancer crossed her arms, huffed. "What would you have of me?"

"An attitude change, Grace. You say I'm petulant, but don't you think you're too, like, contradictory? Like there's a lot of cynicism, but also a lot of idealism. It's weird."

"Idealism?"

"Really? You're a fucking Christian! You believe that shit? God? What has your faith brought you? Have your prayers been answered? Has God done anything to make your life the least bit less miserable? You talk like you're so hard, you've learned to discard all these naive attachments in order to achieve your goals, yet you cling to a piece of propaganda invented by state philosophers two thousand years ago!"

"God is real," said Lancer simply. "Do you _not_ believe in Him?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

Lancer's curiosity seemed genuine, and that irked Jass all the more.

"We can talk more about this when my friends aren't in danger."

"Silence for three hours, followed by a theological discussion, then?"

"What?"

"Remember, lass, we're not doing anything. We can't save your friends."

"I remember no such thing. And while I appreciate this informality, _Lancer_ , don't forget that I'm your _Master_."

"I'd never forget," said Lancer, her tone sultry as she cupped one of her breasts through her leather jerkin.

Jass shivered, recalling the rooftop garden, then remembered she was angry. "Yet the lip never quits."

"None of my lips quit." Lancer's eyes shone. "Perhaps I know a way to distract you for the next three hours."

"Stop." Jass looked back down at her phone, to avoid looking at the ravishing pirate queen. Onson looked back at her from the photo on her screen, scared. "Don't _seduce_ me into letting my friends die."

"I merely wish to make an inevitable loss more bearable."

"Oh, shut up." Jass seethed. "Go pray to your God or whatever while I figure out what to do about this."

Lancer dematerialized with a sarcastic curtsy, leaving Jass physically alone again in the alley. Jass pocketed her phone and concentrated. What were her hidden aces? What could Rey and Rider not be prepared for? They knew she had a Servant, that she would want to save Onson and Raul. They knew Anatoli was dead. Did they think that had taken his Servant out of the picture? Did they think Lancer was gone?

They probably didn't know Lancer was still in the picture, Jass decided. Was she the trump card? Could she go and free the hostages? _No_. Jass couldn't trust her to carry out this task alone. She needed a different angle. A light flame wreathed her furrowed brow, and then she remembered the other thing Rey didn't know.

_I'm a magus._

And she remembered the red marks left on Anatoli's corpse after his Command Seals had transferred to her, the red mark on Onson's hand where he'd used his Command Seals.

She had so many aces.

"Lancer."

"Yes?"

"Fancy being a Master in the Grail War?"

"I'm no magus," replied Lancer. "Why? Is Archer still unattached, d'you think?"

_Saber._

_Yes, Master?_

_Come back._

"Here's the plan," said Jass, when her Servants were both materialized at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Hubert's abuse at the hands of his equally evil former colleagues doesn't make him too sympathetic ;) You may have hoped we'd seen the last of him, but he has a crucial role still to play.
> 
> And Jass. Oh Jass. You tell them. There are growing pains but I think she's coming into her own.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and I look forward to any thoughts and feedback!


	28. In the Labyrinth :: N

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert makes a startling discovery.

In the Labyrinth

N

November 30

 

 

Hubert entered Jerry's office for the first time at half past midnight, two days after the start of the First Manhattan Holy Grail War. It was not something he wanted to do. It was something he'd been forced to do. Not unlike Jerry, he was in turn a slave to cruel saviors. The irony wasn't lost on Hubert as he pulled a folding chair into the doorway and used it to ensure that the door could not close behind him.

He looked out the window, finding the outline of the Waverly building in the glow from firetrucks and rescue choppers. Two afternoons prior he'd been standing there, a pleasant breeze lifting his spirits, giving Jerry his final orders over the phone. And then he'd pointed at Jerry, killing the minotaur and consigning his mana to the Grail.

_No_ , he realized, looking around the room.

He _had_ killed Jerry Cormic, dissolving him into so much crimson liquid.

The mana from Jerry's death _had_ been enough to top off the Grail.

Seven emanations _had_ been summoned as Servants, and the ritual _had_ begun.

Hubert had been tasked with recovering the Lesser Grail from its perch at the center of Jerry's mana bloom. In the tradition of the early Fuyuki rituals, the Thule Society had used a simple physical vessel in this experiment. Waters had been fairly hands-off in her instruction, and allowed Hubert to keep his distance from the vessel and, by extension, Jerry's territory. Lobe Farrys wanted more direct control of the prize.

The wrinkle became clear before Hubert had even crossed the room to check the small cabinet beneath the windowsill.

The Lesser Grail was gone.

Because of course it was. Nothing remains in place in a labyrinth. The minotaur lived.

A new opportunity presented itself like a beacon.

Western civilization had begun in Athens, a land of culture and rationality founded by Theseus. Perhaps, returning triumphant with the head of a modern minotaur, Hubert would found a society capable of restoring Western civilization.

Hubert materialized three Black Keys in his good hand and, with a kick, dislodged the chair he'd placed in the doorway, allowing Jerry's office to engulf him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Present day. Present time.
> 
> "In the Labyrinth" began as a way to incorporate regular, illuminating flashbacks. But it's so much more than that. I should say no more.
> 
> 🦊


	29. 15 - Three Little Pigs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thule Society magi endeavor to gain Servants.

Dalthera Garleyel watched from the shadows as the young magus took a picture of the back of her hand with her cellphone. In the light from the flash, Dalthera saw the red smudge, the telltale sign of spent Command Seals. She had just arrived, following a bright trail of mana, keeping her own presence hidden as best she could with a Screen. She had nowhere near Red's skill with the Six Arts, but she stayed in practice. It had made her feel close to him even across an ocean, and now it made her feel close to him, even across death.

Death.

Losing Red had been easier than she'd expected. It was what had to happen. And with the Grail, she could enjoy a different Red, one who didn't prefer dusty trucks and American diners to her secluded countryside manor. She just needed a Servant so that she could join the war properly.

She put a String on the girl with the cellphone. _Say something._

"Wait."

 _Wait?_ Dalthera grimaced. _Say more._

The girl looked around the alley, searching for something, someone. _Can she feel my String?_

"Jerry? Jerry is that you?"

This one was sharp. Cormic had been a Six Arts practitioner. His protege could feel the magecraft, discern its nature. Dalthera wove a Clasp, tying the girl's tongue, and then put another Screen on herself. She'd heard enough.

"I need a minute alone," she said in the younger woman's voice.

Of the Six Arts, the Screen was Dalthera's favorite—the most similar to her own magecraft—and she was able to place the words in the middle of the alley, emanating from her target's mouth.

The two Servants in the alley, both in spirit form, left.

Another Screen hid the alley from the outside.

"Okay." Dalthera reprised her own voice, emerged from the shadows. "Jass Bonzalez, correct? My name is Dalthera Garleyel, and I'm with the Mage Association."

Bonzalez looked at her mutely, confusion turning to fear in her eyes.

"Oh, of course. My bad." Dalthera released her Clasp.

"What do you want?" Bonzalez asked, clenching her fists and stepping back.

"The Grail," Dalthera said simply. Bonzalez was a magus, but she seemed low on magical energy, and tired. Dalthera wasn't scared. She could be honest. Keep things simple. "I had a mentor once, like your… 'Jerry.' We grew apart, and now he's dead. The Grail can return him to me."

"That's a dumb wish," Bonzalez said.

Dalthera felt her family magecraft swell alongside her anger. "You—"

"Sorry," Bonzalez said quickly. "I'm really tired, and I keep saying the wrong things."

The anger dwindled, and Dalthera managed to maintain her Screens.

"Alright. I'm not here to debate ideals, anyway. I want a Servant."

"Tell me more," said Bonzalez, a little too quickly.

 _Is this girl_ stalling _me?_ The Garleyel crest seethed inside her, begging to be unleashed. "Forget it." Dalthera wove another Clasp, full-body, paralyzing and rooting Bonzalez. She didn't need words to persuade. She had the Arts. She would take Bonzalez's rights as a Master as easily as Cormic had granted them.

Then she heard the lyre.

The Six Arts had their strengths. They were easy to use. As an extremely basic form of magecraft, they tended not to draw as much attention as more complex spells. And they were versatile in the hands of an imaginative magus.

But they also had their weakness:

They were all based on existing mana pathways. They dealt with the spiritual, not the physical. And that made them mind-affecting, and that made them butter before the knife of David's lyre.

Dalthera cursed as Saber materialized in the alley, lyre in hand, bemused expression on his young face. She should have seen this coming. Red's notes had mentioned Saber's likely identity. Red's notes had even enumerated some of his observed abilities, lyre included.

The Screens were gone. The Clasp was gone. Everything was gone. Bonzalez was jumping forward, blazing fist aiming for Dalthera's face. Saber smiled in the background, unworried.

No more words needed to be spoken. Bonzalez understood that Dalthera was a threat, and she was moving to end that threat.

This had not gone well.

Dalthera closed her eyes, picturing her manor, its seclusion, the nature of the Garleyel crest. A centuries-long lineage of magi all with an origin of isolation, honed by runic study within the Thule Society.

" _Isaz_ ," she said.

Ice swallowed Dalthera Garleyel, severing her from the world.

 

# # #

 

Bennis Litzgerbald fancied himself a happy man.

Other magi hated digital technology. Obsessed with the hand-made, the heirloom, their ludditic haze prevented them from appreciating one of the key advantages of the inter-connected 21st century: accumulation.

Accumulation!

Accumulation.

All magi strive to accumulate, but none was so successful as Bennis. Other magi collected relics, jeweled daggers and martyrs' shrouds. They built hoards of mystic codes. They developed their own magical capabilities.

Inefficient! It was all so inefficient.

Bennis was a new kind of magus. He'd followed Jerome Cormic's early experiments more closely than his Clock Tower colleagues, his curiosity piqued by the rogue magus's assertion that any investment of importance would constitute a minor mana transfer. In 2003, he had set up his own experiment to test simply that portion of Cormic's theses. His medium: cell phones.

Two perfect successes in a row. Accumulation! Raising funds by selling portions of his family's ancient estate, he quietly increased his shares in Vodafone.

And then, in 2008, he happened upon a delightful piece of news: a bunch of conspiracy theorists in America were suing their government for illegal wiretapping, allegedly conducted at largescale data centers where security agencies could skim or clone activity records directly from mobile operators.

Brilliant! Accumulation!

His colleagues thought him an eccentric. Bennis stepped away from Clock Tower politics in 2008, instead entering the world of mainstream politics. He consolidated his control over Vodafone and pulled the strings necessary for the UK to establish its own secret programs based on the documentation leaked by AT&T whistleblower Mark Klein. It was during this time that he repeatedly ran into Anne Marie Waters, a fellow magus who threw her political weight around for him in exchange for a promise to support her games in the Mage Association. She'd dragged him further from the Clock Tower, to the Wandering Sea. Sure. Easy. Accumulation. None of them could see what he was doing.

Waters! Thule Society! None of that crap mattered!

In 2017, Bennis Litzgerbald was CEO of Vodafone. He had access to thousands of data centers around the globe, and he had homunculi in each of them overseeing the crystallization of his customers' mana. The world was addicted to smartphones. People spent hours on them every day! They spent hundreds of hard-earned pounds on them every year! They used them for family, for work, for love, for sex. And all of that use, all of that investment, passed through Bennis's data centers.

No man in the history of magecraft had ever commanded so large a reserve of pure mana.

Accumulation, accumulation, accumulation!

Capitalism was truly a form befitting the modern magus. Money in one hand, mana in the other. The love and admiration of millions, transferred globally in seconds by digital networks.

Bennis was a rich man. A happy man.

So what was this strange feeling, he wondered, as he lay bleeding out on Wall Street, a pincushion for Archer's arrows? As his consciousness ebbed, he tried to remember where it all went wrong.

Maybe two minutes ago? The images flashed before his eyes, replaying themselves in shades of scarlet.

Archer standing over him, bow in hand.

Bennis offering Archer a contract.

Archer shaking his head.

"When we're summoned into an era, we are granted knowledge by the Grail," Archer had said. "Knowledge relevant to the age, and to our tasks."

How had that mattered? Bennis struggled to remember, choking on the blood filling his lungs.

"For my purposes, that includes the companies in the Fortune 500."

Ah yes, with Vodafone at #158 and rising. Accumulation!

"And the names and faces of their CEOs."

That's me!

"For your crimes against this planet and all walks of its inhabitants, the people's punishment is death."

 

# # #

 

After Bennis had set out on Archer's trail, Lobe Farrys hadn't had to wait long for her own target to emerge from the large dormitory complex up the block. With one hand, Lobe shut Red's notepad. She pocketed it, looking up to see the unremarkable Yankee uni student walking toward her. Karli Dandleton. Karli. Karli, Karli. A sweet name. A sweet girl.

Standing under the streetlight, Lobe pondered the ideal opening line. Approaching students was something she was good at. She'd managed to get eighty percent of the Clock Tower's pupils on board for Brexit. But that was in another country, and the children of magus families trended conservative. This was new territory. She'd heard that the Karlis of the world were a new breed of woman. Endlessly greedy, endlessly disloyal. How to appeal to them? Words churned in her head.

 _Miss._ Yes, that was good. _Miss, I'm from the Mage Association, and I can help you._ Beautiful. No, brilliant, she realized, as Karli drew nearer, face cloudy. Karli needed help.

"Miss," she said when Karli was a few feet away, "I'm from the Mage Association, and I can help you."

Karli Dandleton didn't look at her, walking past as if she'd heard nothing.

Confused at being ignored, Lobe did the simple thing. She grabbed Karli's sleeve.

She could swear she heard Karli mutter something brief, and then a brick dropped from the sky, smashing her forearm. She lost her grip on Karli's sleeve as her bone shattered.

Karli continued away, stride uninterrupted.

"Excuse me," said Lobe, looking in disbelief from her ruined arm to the brick on the sidewalk to Karli, marching away at high speed. The initial shock faded quickly, replaced with pain and indignity. Fucking Yankees.

" _Heilen,_ " she spat, and then she launched herself after Karli, her bones beginning to knit as she ran.

She'd only gained slightly on the student when the sidewalk swung up in front of her. A good magus but not a great athlete, she was unable to slow down in time, and she smashed into it, abrading the skin on her palms, nose, and cheeks. _Fuck._

"Alright," she huffed, " _einzäunen._ "

The city had been loud, dramatic. A park fire, subway disaster, and earthquake in Times Square had emergency vehicles in a tizzy. The sky was bright with searchlights and everywhere sirens were wailing. Quickly, all these sensations faded. A faint white circle on the ground spread out from her feet, devouring the sidewalk and street and turning the immediate world gray.

Her soul reverberated as Karli pounded against the edge of her barrier.

"I just want to talk," Lobe said, and the sidewalk that had risen to greet her crumbled to dust. On the other side of it, Karli was turning around, back pressed against the invisible edge of the space Lobe had created. The two were alone.

 _No._ _There was a third._

Immaterial, a Servant in spirit form, Caster hovered between Lobe and her quarry.

"Let us out," said Karli coldly.

Lobe felt a killing intent from Caster, and spoke as quickly as she could.

"Hear me out for two minutes without attacking me, and I'll dismiss the space. I have no doubt your Servant could have me dead in a second, so what's the harm in listening?"

"I doubt you have anything interesting to say," said Karli. "The last magus who wanted to talk to me was a fraud and a Nazi."

_Hubert?_

Lobe stumbled for a moment, but thankfully Karli was as dumb as she looked. The girl shrugged. "But I guess listening to him didn't harm me."

"I'm from the Mage Association," Lobe said, relieved. This would be easy. "And I can help you. A rogue magus named Jerome Cormic tricked you into participating in a dangerous ritual. I'm here to free you from his trap."

Karli listened, as promised. Then she rolled her eyes. "That it? Help me by taking a hike."

_Wait._

Redlan's notes had described Karli as hostile to the supervisor, but this level of instant hostility seemed almost pathological.

"You want to continue in the Grail War?" Lobe asked, feining surprise. Employing an intricate mystery she'd developed as Waters' primary speechwriter, she managed to say something else entirely under her breath as she talked. _Erkennen._

Within her grayscale barrier, the flow of mana began to glow in a rich array of colors. Caster's spiritual form lit up, a giant shimmering blue kite. Around her own arm, orange lights flickered where her healing magic still worked. And Karli, devoid of magic circuits but with an unnaturally high mana investiture, emitted a faint green light throughout her form—except her head, which was wrapped in a red shroud.

The red pulsed bright as Karli said yes.

Lobe shook her head, then turned to the shimmering blue form of Caster.

"Did you place your own Master under this geas?" Lobe asked, fortifying her body in case her words provoked an immediate attack.

No attack came.

Karli frowned and cupped her ears. Caster materialized, a bearded man in white robes and red sash. Lobe forced herself to maintain her composure as she took in the man's appearance and obvious identity. He looked sad.

"I would do no such thing," he said. "My magecraft is limited to the physical. Is that what has been controlling her, a geas?"

"Indeed," she said.

"Why are you revealing yourself?" Karli asked, frustrated with her Servant. "And what are you talking about?"

"And she's unaware of it?" Lobe asked, ignoring the girl.

"Completely," said Caster.

Karli's hostility had seemed an inconvenience, but now Lobe saw it for what it was. As the right-hand woman to a fringe politician, she was used to turning problems into solutions. If Caster had yet to remove the curse, he likely couldn't. This was leverage.

"I can lift it," she said.

"Name your price," said Caster.

"Hey!" Karli yelled. "It's been two minutes. Caster, break us out of here. Kill her if you need to."

Caster smiled sympathetically at Lobe. "It's hard to disobey my Master," he explained, and then he shot a pillar of masonry at the edge of Lobe's territory, causing the air to crack. "Luckily, I don't think I'll need to kill you."

"That's something else I can solve," offered Lobe, channeling mana into maintaining her barrier, but making sure not to strengthen it too much. It wouldn't do for Caster to decide he had to kill her.

"I'm listening," said Caster, looking back at Lobe as he fired round after round of constructions materials at the barrier.

"My colleagues and I are here to free Cormic's students from bondage to the Grail. We would take their place as Masters. I would be yours, and you my Servant."

Caster frowned. "My odds at the Grail may improve with a Master capable of hearing the name Rider," he admitted, "but I doubt my covenant is transferable."

"Quit _stalling!_ " yelled Karli. "Caster, we need to go."

"You've changed Masters once already, have you not?" Lobe asked.

Caster's nostrils flared.

"My Master must be respectful and align with my ideals," he hissed.

"Do you have that now?" Lobe stepped forward, one hand outstretched, the other a tight fist focusing the barrier's strength. "You're a reflection of a reflection, the emanation of a myth."

Caster flung more bricks at the tautening barrier.

"Geas binds the target's body. It's a curse, but its effects aren't spiritual. They're physical. Her ears are bound, her tongue is bound, her brain itself is bound. She cannot hear you say Rider. With a Master like that, you have no chance of winning the Grail. Now's not the time to be picky, Jesus of Nazareth. This may be your last opportunity to jump ship."

"She's strengthening the barrier!" cried Karli. The poor girl was a step behind, her brain struggling to parse the data it was allowed to process. "Kill her, Ca—"

Lobe stepped forward and delivered a swift punch to Karli's solar plexus. It wasn't her best or most refined work, but it prevented the order from being delivered.

Caster glared at Lobe.

"I don't think I like you," he said slowly.

"I don't think you should," said Lobe. "And I don't think you need to."

She thought back to the reports from the 4th and 5th Fuyuki Holy Grail Wars. What were the words?

" _I hereby propose,"_ she began.

Karli, recovering her breath, raised her hand, Command Seals glowing.

 _"Your Will mine, and I your Sword,"_ continued Lobe, careful not to rush the words, careful not to speak too slowly.

"Caster," said Karli. "Don't make me use a Command Seal."

" _Answer to abide the Grail's Laws."_

"Kill. Her."

" _I hereby swear."_

Caster looked a child denied his dessert as he conjured two walls of bricks, one on each side of Lobe.

She quickly released her fist, allowing her space to shrink to fit just herself as the walls collapsed in on her. They slammed against the edge of her barrier and bounced off. Then she dismissed the magecraft entirely, and the three of them stood on the sidewalk amidst the chaos of Manhattan.

_"I shall define Good and unmake Evil."_

Karli, satisfied with the barrier's dismissal, began walking away at her previous hurried pace. Caster lingered, whip in hand, uncertainty clear on his face. Was he supposed to continue trying to kill her, Lobe wondered, or could he simply dematerialize and follow his Master? Either way, she'd made it in time. It was a rushed job, but Caster was already here, already summoned. How much ceremony was really required?

_"Take my hand, Ascendant!"_

Despite the adrenaline-inducing possibility of almost being sandwiched between two walls, it had all been rather simple. Close to the predictions they'd made on the plane over. Requisitioning these Servants from non-magus civilians was, indeed, taking candy from babes.

Karli stopped walking, doubled over, one hand clutching the other.

A brief pain pierced Lobe's hands and feet. She didn't need to look to confirm that the nail-shaped Command Seals had affixed themselves to her body in the locations of the stigmata.

Caster looked at her with a searching gaze. He couldn't bring himself to ask the question, but he awaited the response.

"Yes," she said. _I am your Master._

He nodded gravely. "The other thing."

"The other thing?" she asked.

He pointed to Karli, now shrieking in outrage. _The geas._

"Ah yes," said Lobe. She took a moment to shrug out some of the tension in her shoulders, to flex her healed forearm, to stretch. Maybe it hadn't quite been taking candy from a baby. Centered, she extended both hands toward Karli. "A geas can be a tricky thing to lift. Especially if it is tethered to the more delicate body parts." With her recognition magecraft still active, she reached out for the red shroud around Karli's head. "That said, removal in itself… Removal in itself is simple."

_Wait, Mast—_

Simple. " _Vertrag verlezten._ "

The shroud evaporated, geas gone. Karli fell silent, slumped to her knees.

"Dame Lobe Farrys," said Lobe, "if you'll pardon the belated introduction." Caster looked on in hurt shock. "My history and my wish are no concern of yours. Our top priority is to kill Rider and avenge your previous Master. Let's go."

_Avenge?_

Lobe followed Caster's gaze to Karli's prone form.

"This wouldn't have happened if she'd known that listening to strangers can certainly cause harm." She adjusted the ruffles at the ends of her shirtsleeves, then turned her back on the body. "Come now Caster, dematerialize and follow me. I haven't got all night. I'd hate to spend an unnecessary minute in this damned city."

Caster knelt at Karli's side, cradled her head.

"Forget it," snapped Lobe, and she walked away, wondering if her colleagues were faring as well as she. She hoped not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi 🦊
> 
> Bennis may be out of the picture, but Dalthera and Lobe will reprise their roles as antagonists in future chapters. Lobe's pretty basic, but Dalthera's an interesting magus, and I look forward to showing more of her. There's not a ton of info available on the Fate canon Thule Society, but I was able to piece some things together. Fetishization of Germanic "heritage" and study of runic thaumaturgy both seem to be aspects of the cult, and I've tried to show those off with Dalthera, Lobe, and, of course, Hubert (who wears his politics on his sleeve, and whose index finger death spell is probably a souped-up version of the "gandr shot," another runic magecraft).
> 
> Bennis came up in the Clock Tower, and joined Thule as a maneuver. (Their ideology is not his driving force.) That said, he's still a capitalist pig. And dead. :)
> 
> Don't have much to say about Karli other than T_T  
> There've been hints as to what's going on with her since Red's chapters (he noticed the traces of a geas in the stairwell where she and Caster fought Rider), and this is really a logical conclusion. You can't win a Holy Grail War when one of the enemy Servants has control of your mind.
> 
> Also, Archer is fun. At least for me. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed & thanks for reading!


	30. In the Labyrinth :: O

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week before the ritual, the heady mana of Jerry's office gives rise to a curious phenomenon.

In the Labyrinth

O

November 20

 

 

The door and the deadbolt. Footsteps away down the hall. Beyond the constant barrier of the window, the world. The fire of life behind humans' concrete follies, behind the castles of steel and glass, beneath the Earth. In its place, the fake constellations, the flashes, the marquees.

The orchids, to themselves.

The Croon inaudible, but incessant. Infinitely real. A language of the soul, of the second half of all things. Roots wet, moist both with water and the immense love of seven trapped humans. A mana bloom. The humans.

First property of Gaia, now property of a minotaur.

A thought, an attention to state, to transition, to _becoming—_

The orchids _sang_ , the orchids _drank_ , the orchids _loved_ —

The orchids _had been_ one thing, _now were_ another.

With this linguistic conquest complete, the orchids turned to verbs, to questions of state and action. Whose were they, or of whose were they? To whom did they owe their loyalty, their overflowing love? What could they do to express that loyalty, that love?

They weren't Alters. They weren't magi. All they had were their senses.

So they began to sense for the thread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section takes place on the same day as "In the Labyrinth: A", after Jerry goes home for the night. The maze thickens. Thanks as always for reading, and sorry for the brief break in updates! (I was camping.) Next chapter next week!


	31. 16 - Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jass confronts Rider.

Jass Bonzalez stuffed her left hand, wound into a tight fist, into her hoodie pocket. With her right hand, she knocked on the door. At this time of night, the corridors of Weinstein Hall were deserted and dark. Save the lingering sounds of emergency vehicles from Time Square, it was quiet. Jass was alone, waiting outside the one lit room.

Someone said something muted on the other side of the door, and then weight shifted inside. The floor sighed as someone crossed the room, and then the latch clicked and the door swung inward.

"Jassss," said Rey, dreamily, holding the door open. She was dressed in a vest and socks and not much else. Her thatch of pale gray-brown pubic hair drew Jass's eye.

She forced her gaze up, scanning the dorm room. Behind Rey, Jass saw Onson and Raul, huddled on the floor, and Rider, tall, immaculate, shining. He slouched elegantly by the window, all lines and sharp angles in his suit.

"Rey," said Jass, guardedly.

"C'monnn," whined Rey. "Don't give me that. What's a girl gotta do to get some love? My prince says he can't kiss me till we're married, but I have _needs._ "

The steamy look in Rey's eyes was a new thing. Jass knew Rey had her passions—she'd heard about Bren—but she'd never seen them. This onslaught of sexuality took her aback, and the shock helped her focus on the tasks at hand.

_My hand._

Jass held up her right hand, palm facing herself, back of her hand facing the room.

"I've severed my contract with Saber," she announced, gazing at Rider. Despite the impossibility of his appearance, he was easier to look at than whatever was going on with her friend.

"Did she really?" Rey asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Indeed," said Rider. "Her Command Seals are gone, and I cannot sense Saber's presence."

"Fuck," yelled Raul from the floor. Onson tried to console him, but he raged. "Jass, you dumb _bitch_ , our shit lives are not better than your wish!"

Rey, for her part, smiled.

"A deal's a deal," she said. "Right, my darling?"

Rider nodded. "That's right, Princess."

"They can go?"

"You're all free, yes," Rider said. "In fact, it is we who shall go. I should apologize for my uncouth methods, but I believe peaceful resolutions are best when princesses are involved."

He moved to step away from the window.

"Wait," said Jass. Her heart raced. She hoped it would be less obvious to the enemy Servant. She didn't have forever to hide her intentions. She needed her friends out of the room, fast. How could she delay? The answer was right in front of her. She put her right hand on Rey's naked hip. "I'd like to help Rey out. Maybe she and I can stay here for a bit, use the bed?"

Onson looked at her with a deeper despair in his eyes than when he'd apologized for killing Bobsom. Jass made a note to ask him about that later. Raul sneered, took Onson's hand, and left the room.

Rider shrugged as they left. "I guess we're not in the biggest of hurries. I'll give you thirty minutes, but I need to watch over my Princess, so I won't give you thirty minutes alone."

"Please watch us," breathed Rey, staring into Jass's eyes with a stabbing desire.

The Servant nodded, smiling sagely, and leaned back against the window.

There was no more animosity in the room, no more danger. Rider and Rey were good for their word. Jass could act, now, with her other friends gone, with Rider perfectly placed.

She snaked her arm around Rey's waist and tightened the fist still in her hoodie pocket. Her friend felt good in her arms, too good, her puffy vest an excellent hug pillow, her soft hips warm and inviting.

Still by the open door, Jass said the words.

"By my rights as your Master," she muttered, quickly, quietly, "inscribed in my body by these two Command Seals, I hereby order you to my side. Impale him, _Lancer!"_

Rey and her Servant reacted too slowly to the rapidly muttered incantation, eyes widening in unison as Jass's left fist flared red in her pocket. Neither of them managed to move an inch before Lancer's craft smashed into the room at ramming speed, skewering Rider on its bowsprit. Brick, wood, and glass exploded around the glimmering vessel, cascading over Jass and Rey. A rapidly raised shield of fire protected both of them from the worst of the debris.

When the _Lady O'Malice_ came to a halt, lodged deep in the wall of the building, Lancer hopped out, landing gracefully next to the glitching form of Rider. With the scrutiny of a skilled artist, she examined her handiwork.

"That'll do him," she concluded with a prideful grin, chin raised, teeth showing. "Well, Master? What do you think of my Noble Phantasm?"

Rider's body was already dissolving into blue sparks, crumbling from the feet up.

Spending two Command Seals—one to summon Lancer from a distance, the other to power her mightiest weapon, her Noble Phantasm—was a hefty price, but Jass had to acknowledge the results. Her friends were free and Rider was defeated. And for all her axes and pistols, this was Lancer at her finest: a Lancer. That her stabbing weapon of choice wasn't a spear but a boat further endeared her to Jass.

_We avenged you, Anatoli, and we're one step closer to our wish._

Jass stepped back from Rey, unsure if she'd see relief or disappointment in her friend's face. Neither greeted her. Instead, she met with a haughty, condescending look.

"Raul was right, Jass. You are a dumb fucking bitch."

"What do—"

Rey burst out laughing. "You think you've won? Girl, you're _powerless_ here. And your trump card was another woman?"

"Truly laughable," came Rider's voice.

_Where?_

His body was gone. Jass glanced about in a panic. From everything Saber and Lancer had told her, upon his death he should have returned to the Throne of Heroes, the magical land between worlds where heroic spirits reside. How could his voice linger?

Lancer had axe and pistol in hand, and was casting about with similar apprehension. _Careful, Master._ Her ship dissolved, spent, leaving only the giant hole in the wall.

"I try to be lenient with my princesses," Rider said, still invisible.

_No, not just invisible._ Jass couldn't sense his presence in her Command Seals, a dull throb she'd learned to interpret after her last encounters with him and with Caster. There was only one Servant in the room: Lancer.

"Despite your conniving ways, I see no need for unnecessary bloodshed. Command Lancer's death, and I guarantee your life, Jass Bonzalez."

Rey smirked at Jass, and pointed to her left hand. One red rose remained.

With few words, Jass could leave the Holy Grail War behind. This was her last Command Seal, her only technical tie to the war. If she let Lancer go, she could join Raul and Onson as bystanders. Raul and Onson?

It should have been Bobsom, and Anatoli, and Raul, and Onson—and Rey and Karli! But Bobsom and Anatoli were dead, and Rey and Karli were villains. And the keystone of it all, Jerry, was gone as well. The thought of settling for a return to normalcy briefly attracted Jass, but that attraction faded as she realized how hollow that escape would be. Her social life more than halved. Her political life thrown into turmoil with the death of the Bushwick branch.

She couldn't betray her wish, the wish Anatoli had died for, the wish Raul had killed for. And—somehow, _more_ importantly—she found that she couldn't betray Lancer.

Adrenaline fought to clear her sleep-deprived haze, and she searched for outs.

_How do we fight Rider if he isn't here?_ she asked Lancer.

_I know it's not your way, Master, but we could take the girl._

_Rey?_

_She's far gone as is, Master. An ancient magic of my ancestors rots her brain._

_What?!_

_Geas, Master. I'm no magus, but even I can recognize the curses of my folklore when I see them. The girl before you is not your friend, and may never recover._

_But Saber's harp—_

_Has its limits, Master. It employs an emotional backdoor to access the soul and lift evil spirits and illusions. It can't break geas and it can't save you._

_Save me?_

Lancer's eyes widened. She looked shocked and sad. _I wasn't supposed to—_

"You weren't supposed to _what,_ Lancer?"

Rey rolled her eyes. "I hope you're saying your goodbyes to her, Jass. My Prince will kill you if you dawdle."

"I'm sorry, lass," murmured Lancer. _I can't let you make this decision._

It happened too fast for Jass to react.

Lancer held up her pistol hand. One of the red sheep tattooed on the back of her hand flared and faded. Saber appeared in a blue flash, frowning. He shook his head as he took in the scene, and then another one of Lancer's Command Seals burned away, and he grimaced.

"Apologies," he said to Jass, swinging Goliath's blade from across the room.

Jass's left hand fell to the ground, severed at the wrist.

Even as she screamed in pain, a louder sound filled the room. A gunshot. Followed by another.

Rey crumpled to her knees, eyes wide open, blood trickling from her lips, then keeled over.

Saber knelt by Jass's side, sword gone, harp in hand. He plucked it gently, and Jass noticed her beating heart slow to its rhythm. "I am no happier about this turn of events than you, but Rider's Master is defeated, and we can still attain your wish. I will heal you now."

Jass had no words for her mutinous Servants.

Rider did.

"My Master?"

The tall man in white stood in the middle of the room, a potted orchid in each hand. He was glowing, and laughing.

"That poor child was never my Master. The minute the Grail made the mistake of bringing me here, Rey McSriff surrendered her Command Seals to me."

Saber remained calm, continued playing. In a steady voice, he addressed Lancer. "Master, whatever is going on, I need to attend to Jass."

"I'll cover you," said Lancer.

She moved between Rider and Saber, firing her pistol twice as she moved. The bullets embedded themselves in Rider's chest, staining his suit red. He seemed unfazed.

"You did kill me, you know." He took a step forward. "But I am anchored to this world more strongly than most Servants." He took another step forward. "The Grail typically summons emanations of heroic spirits, but that's not what I am."

"Then what are you?" Lancer asked, holstering her gun and drawing a second axe.

"All in due time, Princess." Rider put his hands up in a gesture of peace, then turned to Jass, groaning on the floor. "I see now that your grand plan was to give your Servant to another Servant so that I would be fooled into thinking you'd abandoned the war. Not a bad idea, honestly, for a little girl. But you do tend toward stupid oversights, and those _can_ develop into critical mistakes. You gave Saber to _Lancer_ , and _Lancer_ is _mine._ "

"What the _fuck_ are you yammering about?" Lancer twirled her axes, took a threatening step forward.

"Ah, yes." Rider smiled, and the pain in Jass's wrist dulled. "She doesn't know it yet." He turned back to Lancer, and his form changed, shrinking, widening, growing outward into an array of skirts and ruffles.

"Your parlor tricks won't work on me," Lancer cried, charging.

Rider, in the guise of Queen Elizabeth, smiled knowingly at the pirate, unbothered by the advance of leather and steel. "I wouldn't call my _nature_ a _parlor trick,_ Grace O'Malley." He spread his arms. "I've come to take you away."

Lancer stopped in her tracks, then, puppetlike, dropped her axes and walked into Rider's embrace. He closed his arms around her, enveloping her in the orchids.

"Saber," Lancer said in a dull monotone. "Leave the girl. Save your mana. Our next target is Archer."

"He has bewitched you, Master," Saber said calmly, dismissing his harp and picking up Jass's severed hand. "I will not be his tool. Think carefully before you attempt to force me with your last Command Seal, for I have the same power over you."

Rider laughed. "I was hoping you would help me defeat Archer, but I suppose it will be quite entertaining to watch you kill each other."

Lancer stepped back from Rider's arms and held up her hand with the last red sheep. "I'm sorry, Saber. I had hope in the wish you and Jass shared. I enjoyed my time with you, but I can't resist this geas."

"I, too, must apologize." Saber put Jass's hand down, relinquishing the Command Seal. "I aim for tolerance in all things, but that time is passed."

"Good-bye, Saber."

" _Hamesh Avanim_ ," Saber said, materializing a slingshot even as the last Command Seal on Lancer's hand began to glow. "More aim, less tolerance. _Alef._ " A single stone struck Lancer in the forehead, and she fell to the floor.

Jass looked up from the floor in a daze as her latest lover dropped.

Rider shimmered and reverted to his white-suited form.

"She will live, Jass," Saber said. "My Noble Phantasm is weaker in the Saber class, and is typically nonlethal in the first place."

"You are quick," Rider said. "I'm impressed, King David."

"You have uncovered my identity," Saber said.

"Few heroes have your skill with a giant's sword and the slingshot."

"Courtesy would have your identity revealed as well."

"Courtesy has a strong hold on me," Rider admitted. "Very well. As I mentioned, I am no hero. I am in fact a conceptual weapon, necessitated by millennia of class society, codified by the Brothers Grimm, and given form in this era by the base cultural instigator Walt Disney. I am the avatar of chivalry in place of justice, the white knight, my nature my undeniable true name: Prince Charming."

Jass thought that all sounded very stupid. Disney? Prince Charming?

But here she was, down a hand, down a Servant, down another friend.

Rey's death upset her more than she'd expected. She'd lost her mentor, her lover, and her ally. But Rey—Rey, the most standoffish of the gang, Rey, the quiet, uncertain one, Rey, Rey who hadn't been too enthusiastic about too many things, Rey, who come to think of it had really been exhibiting some depressive behaviors over the last month, Rey, who had put so much hope into Jerry's experiment—Rey, shot twice in the back, sprawled on the floor pantsless and bloody, enraged Jass. The anger swelled, but she couldn't do anything. Her body was too fatigued, her mana too low. The pain from her wrist was crippling. She had no Command Seals, technically no Servants. She was powerless.

Saber shook his head. "You are indeed no hero, Rider. I will see to your destruction."

He waved his hands, and suddenly he was wielding Lancer's gun and axe.

"Aha." Rider smiled wider, gleaming. "As with Goliath, you take your opponents' things when you knock them out." Rider sighed heavily, dramatically, in sympathy. "I don't suppose you intended to inherit her geas?"

Lancer's weapons vanished from Saber's hands. "No."

"A geas is a contract, after all."

"No."

Saber's voice wavered.

"My nature forges them with women all the time," Rider explained. "I barely control it. Still, they are contracts. And you have inherited Lancer's."

"No."

"I see your Magic Resistance is powerful, to continue this charade of rejection." Rider put the orchids down on the floor, and took a step closer. "But my nature is stronger. My geas is absolute. You want me. You need me. I am your salvation. You will do anything for your salvation."

The room was quiet for a moment, save Jass's harsh breathing.

Finally, Saber nodded.

"She may no longer be a Master," Rider said, "but she is a magus, and means me ill. I think, for your first task, you'll be killing Jass Bonzalez."

Saber nodded again, then turned to face Jass, looking down at her. Fear unlike any she'd felt thus far in the Grail War seized her. Goliath's sword burst into the room. Saber raised it to strike. It was all over. She was going to die as her friends had. Ignominiously.

But before the sword came down, the room changed.

 

 

 

Jass stood in a small office lined with bookshelves overlooking beach swept with pine needles. Various phantoms strode this way and that, chattering indistinctly, phasing through the walls. Giant waxy orchid leaves covered the floor beneath her feet. Everything smelled of black tea, of Jerry.

No, this was his office at NYU, overlooking Greene Street, smaller yet, but also larger.

The spaces were connected, Jass realized, as the phantoms flitted from one office to the next, to others: a sprawling network of nodes, of orchids. She knew their names, though she'd never met them. She'd seen them all before, daydreaming in Jerry's office. Previous generations. Students whose souls were indistinguishable from the orchids they tended. A grand cycle of mana, of ebb and flow. Jerry's experiments.

At the center of it all, Jass saw the pale woman El.

El held a key in her hand. A thread was tied to the key, draping to the floor and running off into the murky depths of an inscrutable maze. El looked over her shoulder at Jass.

"You must be one of us," El said softly. "Red called for me. I'll do my best."

And then El was gone, and the space twisted in on itself until it was a simple hallway. Stepping out of the shadows, a small black blade held in his remaining hand, was the nazi priest Hubert.

 

 

 

Jass blinked. She was still on the floor of Anatoli and Raul's dorm room, hand still severed, still in excruciating pain and shock. Rey lay lifeless by her side, Lancer unconscious a few feet over. Saber stood over her, Goliath's sword gone. His hands were empty, his face serene.

Past him, Jass could see the shattered pots and clumps of mud, a few curls of green the only remains of the orchids Rider had been holding.

Hubert stood where Rider had, sword stained brown with potting soil. A blue shimmer evaporated from the space he occupied.

"How?" Jass asked, croaking. "Why?"

Hubert shrugged as the walls buckled and the floor swayed. "We miscalculated. You got lucky. That's all."

"Lucky?" Jass choked.

"Better to be saved by your enemy than killed by your friend," Hubert scoffed, pointing at Saber with his sword.

The words rang in Jass's head.

"Well, anyway." Hubert wiped his sword clean on Anatoli's mattress. "Toodles."

The brick wall opened up into another hallway. Hubert stepped around a corner, and was gone.

Before Jass could say anything else, Saber was on his knees, applying ointment and bandages to the stump of her wrist. As he worked, he spoke in a soothing tone.

"You have a lot of questions, and a lot of anger. You need to put them aside for now. Nothing will help you like a full night's rest. Tomorrow, Lancer and I will answer for our actions. We are still yours, and we still fight for your wish."

Jass felt her eyelids drooping.

"Sleep well, Jass."

Her last thought before drifting off was that despite Saber's reassurances, he wasn't calling her Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot here...
> 
> First of all, I'm sorry about Rey. I really am. She was one of my favorites.
> 
> Second of all, Lancer is fine. David's Noble Phantasm, the slingshot that fires five stones, guarantees a knock-out blow—not a lethality. Here, he skips his 'tolerance' and the countdown, going straight for the final shot ("one").
> 
> That I used Grace O'Malley as a Lancer was, from the beginning, a conceit based around her Noble Phantasm being ramming enemies with her ship. This has finally happened in the text, and I consider her character complete at this point.
> 
> Speaking of complete: Rider. Rider is gone. With no Master AND with no orchids, he has no mana source, and Gaea has erased him. I really liked his concept and enjoyed writing him as a villain. He was powerful and tenacious. But he wasn't invulnerable, and Hubert ended him. 
> 
> This may raise further questions for readers:
> 
> What was Jass's vision? Who is El? How did Hubert appear, and why? (Jass asked these questions herself, above.) These are questions to be answered by further chapters, though you may be putting some of the pieces together already <3
> 
> Thanks as always for reading! 🦊


	32. 17 - Theseus, Daedalus, and Other Dead Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This is both a full chapter AND the final 'In the Labyrinth' segment.) 
> 
> Hubert Manweal navigates the minotaur's labyrinth and runs afoul of the world.

In the Labyrinth

Finale

November 30

 

 

Hubert and the minotaur danced, as weasel and monkey, skirting the flowering hedges of the maze. Space folded and unfolded endlessly as they weaved through the myriad passageways, flitting from place to place and time to time. At every bend, the minotaur was there, mighty axe in hand, nostrils flaring, red eyes flashing. Hubert dodged this way and that as the walls gave way to the minotaur's swings. They reformed just as quickly, in entirely different configurations, and the chase restarted.

Around this corner, Hubert was the hunter; around that, the quarry. He was the interloper in an ancient lair, both dragon slayer and entangled prey. Here he flung his Black Keys at the minotaur, wounding it; there, the axe caught his empty sleeve, the mere force of the swing bruising his ribs.

In a physical space, the minotaur would be no match for his magecraft, for his weapons. His gandr shot would weaken it, his holy swords end it. But here, in the orchidspace, things were different. The labyrinth wasn't just a battlefield. It was the minotaur's territory, and it bent to the minotaur's will. The passageways rearranged themselves to give the minotaur opportunities to strike. The floor buckled up and down in an effort to fling Hubert to the ground, to render him vulnerable.

Through all this he persisted, building walls and temporary bridges of enlarged Black Keys, running on his own holy steel as he evaded his target's blows. It wasn't enough, he realized as the butt of the minotaur's axe caught him in the spine and he went flying.

None of his tricks or tools would give him the edge he needed.

Unlike Theseus, he had no thread, no allies.

Maybe—he was trying to work on his arrogance—maybe he wouldn't be able to defeat the minotaur.

Something began to gnaw at the edge of Hubert's soul.

#

Hubert found it easier to evade the minotaur when he wasn't looking for his own opportunities to strike. Here and there he made his own holes in the hedges, his own shortcuts, and he managed to put some distance between himself and his erstwhile quarry.

As he moved, he reflected on his options. He could always just perform the task he'd been assigned. Grab the Lesser Grail and go.

Easy peasy, he thought grimly. Grab the Grail. Just gotta find it, then blip blammo.

_Blip blammo?_

Hubert was in the kitchen section of an Ikea, surrounded by shelves of orchid-patterned plates and bowls. He couldn't hear the minotaur anymore, and assumed he had time to slow his pace and catch his breath. He cast about, looking deep into the porcelain sea around him. Hubert wasn't sure if he had stepped into an illusory magecraft, or if this space was perhaps a Reality Marble. He had no experience with either. Was this space contained within the labyrinth, or had he stumbled out?

The orchids suggested the former. He pressed on, aiming for the cup displays.

#

Fatigue. Fatigue in his soul. Something intangible was chipping away at Hubert. Was it the dizzying array of incandescent orchids that formed the ceiling of the parking lot he'd just entered? Where was the fucking Grail?

He followed the exit signs.

#

Hubert came into a clearing, a sunlit hill. There he saw Redlan Voss, that lone wolf tracker from the Mage Association, standing, animatedly lecturing to two seated college-aged kids. Hadn't his colleagues killed Voss? Then he saw the beat-up red truck parked at the foot of the hill, the crisp political bumper stickers.

Things clicked. This wasn't 2017.

Voss looked at Hubert. The kids followed his gaze.

Hubert was bloodied, one-armed, sword in hand. He looked back.

"Who are you?" Voss asked.

The orchids sang, nowhere in sight yet everywhere. They called from every wall of the labyrinth. Hubert saw the green string, tied to the ankle of one of the kids. It led off into the distance, shimmering.

"A poor substitute for Daedalus," he answered.

Voss seemed to catch his meaning. "Shit. It got me?"

Upon asking the question, recognition dawned on Voss's face. He understood his predicament. He fell into deep thought.

Hubert didn't see the point in replying. He instead approached the kid with the string. The girl. She was tall, thin, pale, with hair that was almost too dull to be brown. She didn't look happy.

"Listen, mister," she said, tone short. "Unless you know where Mel is, don't waste our fucking time."

"She's in here somewhere," Hubert said.

"In?" asked the girl, face twisting into a grimace. "Fuck off."

Hubert swung at the air with the Black Key in his hand. The kids cringed away from the blow. Voss, entranced in his own internality and existentialism, didn't react. The labyrinth, on the other hand, did. With a clanging noise, the sword bounced off an invisible wall.

"We're in a maze," Hubert said. "A minotaur's labyrinth."

"Jerry," breathed the girl. The boy squeezed her hand.

Hubert nodded.

The girl didn't seem to be aware of the string around her ankle as she stood and stepped toward Hubert. It lay slack on the ground, trailing off somewhere safe. "Take me to Mel."

#

There were countless scenes like this littering the labyrinth, each populated by its wraiths, unwitting humans whose souls were still somehow bound to Professor Jerome Cormic. The maze covered the continent, with empty nodes everywhere Hubert's colleagues had set up fake orchid experiments. Sometimes the wraiths noticed Hubert; sometimes he failed to interrupt them. The girl with the thread, who had given her name as Elizabeth, recognized some of the wraiths, but not others.

Her anger and confusion diminished as they navigated the labyrinth.

At one point, they happened across some kind of social gathering, dozens of kids mingling, discussing poetry and politics. Elizabeth was there, but she was also by Hubert's side.

The Elizabeth in the crowd made eye contact with Hubert, then with herself, and she faded with a smile.

"I didn't realize I'd spent so long in here," Elizabeth murmured.

#

Mel sat alone on the floor in a dark studio apartment, blackout curtains defending her against the sun. Her table and couch mocked her.

The doorbell rang.

It rang three more times before she realized she needed to do something to keep it from ringing. She pulled herself from the floor, prying herself away from the dull embrace of gravity. She stumbled toward the door. Through the peep hole, she saw her guests.

Her hand paused on the doorknob.

"Mel, I know you're in there," Elizabeth called from outside.

Impossible. No one knew Mel was in here.

Not since her orchid had died.

"Maybe she's not home," suggested Brian.

"None of you are home," spat the third guest, the one-armed blonde. "Now step away so I can force the door."

Mel didn't step away.

The door held against the stranger's onslaught. His sword was holy, Mel understood instinctively. Holiness couldn't touch the room. Etheric grain floated around the ceiling. Mel's studio was a dead space: a place in which the world itself had undergone necrosis. A place devoid of mana.

"Let me try something," Elizabeth said, shooing off the violent stranger.

She pressed herself against the door. Mel mirrored her movement. This was the closest she would ever come to her friends.

Then something tickled Mel's elbow. A thin green string had wormed its way through the keyhole.

"I can see you," Elizabeth said.

And she could. The studio fell away, and the two stood hugging in a gray hallway.

#

The minotaur was back on their scent.

Hubert danced with it, then Elizabeth took a turn. She had no weapons, but she shone, her pallor brightening into an angelic guise. She approached the minotaur head-on, and it bowed briefly before recovering and swinging its axe at her. She leapt back with an agility that surprised Hubert.

"Jerry called it spellsight," she explained as they ran. "I can see the vectors of mana. I didn't die there."

"That's some hippie bullshit," Hubert said, not sure what to believe.

They chased the minotaur through the ruins of a colosseum, then it chased them across the Euphrates river. They pirouetted through valleys, over mountaintops, across tundras. Everywhere, the natural flora was replaced with pylons of orchids. Everywhere, the wraiths of past experiments gawked. The wraiths of those dear to those other wraiths gawked. The connectedness of the universe played out in endless chains of spectators, all eyes on the grand chase through the labyrinth.

Jerry had only ever raised seven proteges at a time. He'd tried to build a closed space for them, to grow their mana.

But no system is truly closed.

The mana Jerry had cultivated had sought the easiest out, and touched the world itself.

_The worlds._

#

Hubert couldn't find the Grail, but it didn't matter. It would never work. It was tied to the orchidspace, bound up in this nonsense mana bloom, an intertemporal confluence of energy and love that transcended anything the Thule Society had hoped to master. This was the result of their tinkering, of their grand plan to rebuild the Greater Grail system on the back of Jerry's research.

Forget the minotaur, forget the cup.

The labyrinth itself had to go.

#

"We need to move faster," said Hubert. He could feel the minotaur gaining on them, a sense of mild vertigo as the maze reshaped itself behind him.

Brian and Mel were dead weight. They were like everyone else they encountered in the labyrinth: mere wraiths. Echoes of themselves. They were different from Elizabeth, whose consciousness and demeanor evolved as they ran. With every turn in the labyrinth, she seemed to grow stronger, more confident. They kept running into her, finding copies of her in the maze. And every time they found her, she grew brighter, older, aging gradually from her early to late twenties.

Despite the qualitative difference between whatever Elizabeth was and whatever Brian and Mel were, she insisted on protecting these two. Why? And why in particular Mel, basically a corpse, an unloved object? Her mana was completely depleted.

Why did Elizabeth need her?

The attachments these kids had for each other were unreal.

Hubert had never had friends like these.

"Who hurt _you_?"

He spun to see the source of the utterance. A young Jerry stood in a hallway, hands in pockets, dressed in khaki slacks and a navy and gray diamond-patterened sweater vest.

Without missing a beat, Hubert filled him with Black Keys. The body fell to pieces as it tumbled down, watering the orchid floor in blood. Human blood.

"I don't think Jerry _is_ the Minotaur," Elizabeth said as they examined the remains. Brian looked queasy, Mel listless. "I think Jerry is just someone who got lost in here a long, long time ago."

She'd been here before, she'd explained. "I met this version of Jerry last time. I thought I was inside Jerry's mind, but I was wrong."

The four of them took off again, the young Jerry's question bouncing around Hubert's head. Who had hurt him? Most recently, the minotaur. Before that, Lobe Farrys. Before that, Anatoli Dustice. Before that, Lancer. So much pain in a single twenty-four hour stretch. But that wasn't Jerry's question.

Who hurt Hubert?

_No one._

He had friends! Good friends.

These were his friends:

Elizabeth! Brian. And Mel.

There were others. Dozens of others. Hundreds of others. They were all here, in the labyrinth. They loved him, and he loved them. And they needed his help.

_Fuck_. Hubert shook his head as one of them died somewhere. His heart hurt. _It's getting me._

The labyrinth grew stronger as Rey McSriff's mana returned to it.

Hubert felt tears in his eyes.

The wraiths of Jerry's last experiment before his imprisonment were crying, too. Brian and Elizabeth sobbing. Even Mel, Mel with no mana and dead eyes. None of these kids had known Rey McSriff.

"Jass is in trouble," Elizabeth said, suddenly.

"How do you know her?" Hubert asked.

"I don't know," Elizabeth said. "But I know we need to help her." She had a key in her hand. "This was… Trevor's. I think it'll lead me to her."

Hubert didn't know who Trevor was, but he could read the expression of distaste on Elizabeth's face, on Brian's face. Trevor was bad.

The string untied itself from Elizabeth's ankle and wound its way around the keychain.

#

Hubert saved Jass Bonzalez. It felt like the right thing to do. He killed Rider, destroyed the orchids. He told her she got lucky, rationalizing that he'd needed to deal with the orchids to compromise the labyrinth. But he felt relief at saving Jass. His soul squirmed against the effects of the labyrinth, against the invasive feelings of love and connection. His soul wasn't winning.

#

"What happens if it catches us?" Brian asked, gasping for breath.

They had been running hard. He was flagging.

Hubert didn't have an answer. Would they die? _Could_ they die? His theoretical knowledge of magecraft didn't account for the maze in which they found themselves, blending times and spaces.

#

The Clock Tower justices had determined that Jerry's nature was "connection."

Hubert wondered why he'd never given that more thought. It had always been something he'd known. But it had seemed almost obvious: Jerry's theories of accumulation had been based on emotional investment. His nature provided the perspective that allowed him to conduct his weird experiments.

Now Hubert reconsidered Jerry's nature.

The minotaur had gotten Brian, not with axe but with hand, and carried him off.

Connection.

#

There were two more orchids in the current batch. Karli Dandleton had taken them from Jerry's office. Hubert didn't know where to look for them, but Elizabeth had Trevor's key.

"Mel, you're not like this because your orchid died," Elizabeth said, cradling her friend as she cried in the street.

Someone named Kathy lay bleeding on the asphalt.

Hubert tapped his foot impatiently.

"It's like one of those dream within a dream movies," he grumbled.

"I just spent the better part of a year fixing the timeline of manga history," she said, dismissive of Hubert's impatience. "You can wait."

He didn't follow. She had command of some force he didn't understand.

And most importantly, she held the key, the string.

#

Elizabeth and Hubert stood in Karli's room in Coral Tower.

The last of the orchids were destroyed.

Mel had faded back into the labyrinth as the kaleidoscope receded. The real Mel was safe in Santa Frida, it turned out. None of the wraiths called out to Hubert anymore. They'd escaped the maze, tumbled back out into New York. The soul-tampering persisted, however. Hubert wanted to find Onson and Karli, apologize for his behavior. Tell Jass it was all over. The Grail wouldn't work; the War was moot. Jass needed to know, before more of their friends died.

Hubert didn't realize he was panicking until Elizabeth put a hand on his shoulder. She glowed faintly, and his hearing returned.

"Thanks."

She nodded and stepped back.

"You can call me El. Red found me and Brian in May 2011. He helped us save Mel from her depression, told me about the Mage Association, and vanished. He came to me in a dream last night, dying."

Redlan Voss. Jerry's original captor.

Hubert shuddered, thinking about how proud the Thule Society had been as it set its plans into motions years earlier. How arrogant.

El looked around the room, her eyes shining.

"So that's how the Holy Grail War works," she whispered.

"Did you see something?"

"Yeah. I have something I need to do," she said. "For Red."

Hubert nodded.

"Will you help me?"

Hubert nodded again. He would do anything for his friends.

_Wait._

_My friends?_

El was holding a cup. It was a simple porcelain mug, with faded red lettering on the side. Hubert recognized it and gasped. _The Lesser Grail._

"Then help me," El said, tracing her finger along the rim of the mug. "Tell me why you entered the labyrinth."

"I wanted to kill the minotaur," he found himself answering against his will.

"But you couldn't?"

"You were there with me," said Hubert. He ached everywhere from his engagements with the beast. "I couldn't get a good shot in without its labyrinth throwing me, or putting me in the way of its axe."

"If you'd been willing to die, I think you could have killed it."

"Listen—"

El held the green string aloft. Still it shimmered.

Hubert saw that it was infintely knotted, and tied to many things. The mug. El's ankle, again. The key around her neck. His own wrist.

She tugged on the string. It tightened around his wrist. Around his throat.

"What—"

"Sorry, man. I can see your role in all this, and the world is telling me to end it."

She pulled again, and his vision slid as his head fell off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's a lot going on here. I don't think it'll ever all be explained via exposition in the text itself, because I don't think it needs to be, but in case it's of interest, particularly for Fate fans, here's some metatext!
> 
> tl;dr true magic bullshit
> 
> **The Kaleidoscope**  
>  You've seen this word one other time in this fic: when Caster builds a labyrinthine territory using the mana from one of the orchids. A true minotaur's labyrinth is multicursal (multiple entries, branching paths). This minotaur, like Fake Assassin, is a being that accidentally touched the Second Magic. Its need for connection (Jerry's nature, adopted by the beast) coupled with its natural predisposition to maze-building (as a minotaur) allowed it to build a lair that transcended space and time, touching on parallel worlds.
> 
> Hubert isn't familiar with the Second Magic, so I didn't want to have an internal monologue about it in this chapter. But remember, kids: you can always blame Zelretch.
> 
> **The String**  
>  Red, with his dying thoughts—remember him calling for El?—helped the orchids find Elizabeth Friedman ("El"). Though the orchids are the foundation of the labyrinth, and need to be destroyed, don't ascribe too much intentionality to them. Ultimately, they are simply vessels for the emotions of the kids. The green string—the thread allowing escape from the labyrinth, sought out by the orchids—finds El in her last moment *consciously* connected to the labyrinth (nigh contemporaneous with Red's original capture of Jerry). While all of Jerry's proteges remain entangled with the labyrinth on the level of the soul, she is the only one left with a conscious connection to the labyrinth (having intentionally entered it in 2011).
> 
> "String" also happens to be the name of the most invasive of the Six Arts of Alters: the one that forces action.
> 
> **Heaven's Feel**  
>  El's soul is materialized within the labyrinth, a happy accident allowed by the presence of a Holy Grail. Each emanation of herself she finds further completes her soul, strengthening the materialization.
> 
> **The World**  
>  In chapter 9, when Hubert believes himself left for dead, he has the following thought: "The only power in the universe was the universe itself, all the laws that govern physics and magic. And the universe had no will."
> 
> Now, we *all* know that's not true, right? ;)


	33. 18 - Composite Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lobe Farrys and Caster confront Archer. Dalthera Garleyel returns to Hubert's sanctuary, where she meets an unexpected guest.

Eventually, the incessant efforts of the world overwhelmed Dalthera Garleyel, and her Reality Marble gave way. The ice receded rapidly. She was back in the alley. Alone. She tried to track Bonzalez, but her magic circuits sizzled and choked. She was empty. Even the Six Arts were beyond her current capability.

The sky was lightening. The city wasn't still, but it was quieter. Calmer.

Time had passed.

Out of mana, Dalthera made her way back to the Basilica basement, the rallying point Lobe had established.

 

# # #

 

Lobe Farrys couldn't believe the mess she'd inherited. And that punk Hubert, off somewhere looking for the miserable cup, wasn't even present to answer for his indolence. How Waters had made him Jerome Cormic's primary handler was beyond her. His triple card holdership in the Clock Tower, Thule Society, and Holy Church made him a valuable asset, to be sure. But he was a half-asser, nowhere more evident than in the ruin of Times Square.

Clear collateral damage from the Grail War. Easily prevented with a more scrupulous supervisor.

Now, all their asses were on the line.

Sure, like the "gas leaks" in Fuyuki City, the disaster's magical nature could be hidden from the public. But it wouldn't be possible to hide it from the Mage Association. That stupid kid Velvet, the pretender to the El-Melloi title, would be the first on the chopping block. And then the executioners would come for the rest of them. The Thule Society would suffer an inquisition. Lobe saw the scenario play out clearly in her mind's eye. It wouldn't end well.

There was no prettying the situation. There was no way to save the moment.

The only escape was the Grail.

And the only path to the Grail was over the corpses of Servants.

That's why she was here, outside Weinstein Hall, ready to bring the fight to Rider.

Before entering, Caster sent his winged eyeballs to suss out the situation.

"Wait. Rider is dead," Caster announced.

Music to Lobe's ears.

His angelic scouts reported a confused scramble between Servants to use Command Seals on each other. They clearly didn't understand how the Holy Grail War worked. In the end, Rider had been killed by some plant-hating man in black.

Caster relayed this information flatly.

"When we win the Grail, you can use your wish to bring back the girl," Lobe snapped. "Now stop moping."

"Make me," offered Caster.

This triggered pinpricks in Lobe's Command Seals, in her stigmata. They stung. The temptation to use them was great. Caster wasn't resisting her key orders or grossly disobeying her, but his attitude was the _worst._ But Lobe was a professional, and she didn't take the bait.

"Jass Bonzalez remains in the company of Lancer and Saber."

Lobe did quick mental math. "That leaves Archer."

"Indeed. He continues the good work," Caster said.

"The good work?" Lobe snorted. She'd seen the news on her phone. The Wall Street Murders. Some of the dead men had surviving bedmates, and those bedmates had contacted the police. Pincushioned with invisible arrows, dozens of prominent CEOs and investment bankers were confirmed dead.

"Your ceaseless antagonism is bewildering, _Master,_ " Caster said. "You know my name, and you know the place of bankers in the Lord's world. Do you mock my ideals for pleasure?"

"You don't want to know what I do for pleasure, Jesus."

He grimaced, and Lobe shook her head.

"Has Archer made the contract with Bennis yet?"

Caster replied by holding up a mirror. It glinted, then shimmered, and then Lobe's reflection faded. In its place she saw her colleague's body on a sidewalk, blood pooling in the gutter.

"I see," she said slowly. "I suppose it would be proper to avenge my comrade."

At this, Caster laughed. Lobe waited for him to explain his mirth, but he fell silent.

"Let's go," she said.

Caster rubbed his chin.

"Why not engage Jass's Servants?" he asked. "Neither of them is willing to draw steel against me. Last I encountered them, they fled. You're a real magus. With you at my side, I could corner them."

"I need to avenge Bennis."

Caster didn't understand. He didn't object further, or waste any energy expressing his concerns, but Lobe could see it in his face, feel it in their link. He didn't need to understand.

Every magus had their tricks. Bennis had his stupid phone scam. Dalthera had her powerful nature. For her part, Lobe had her narratives of cosmic justice. They were artificial, but so was all magecraft. They were constructed intentionally. They served a purpose. When she was meting out justice, the world smiled on her. She was righter, stronger.

Just as she had come here with purpose, she strode away with purpose. She couldn't avenge Karli's mind—Rider was defeated—but she could avenge Bennis.

Caster sighed and dematerialized, following in spirit form.

Lobe didn't know precisely where to find Archer, but she guessed he would make himself apparent if she entered his territory. With the world at her back and Caster at her side, she would bring Archer to his knees.

" _Reflektieren,_ " she pronounced as she walked.

The air wavered around her. The distortion was more minor than that caused by her enclosure spell, but it would be enough to deflect any projectiles short of a Servant's Noble Phantasm. Lobe's hope was that she would detect the mana expenditure implicit in the use of a Noble Phantasm with enough forewarning to produce better defenses, or run. In the meantime, arrows wouldn't hurt her.

She maintained the minor thaumaturgy effortlessly as she headed toward Zuccotti Park.

Through the link she shared with Caster, she could sense him commanding his angels as they walked. He was sending eyes and ears throughout Wall Street, combing the district for Archer. They'd found nothing of note yet, but that was just fine. The angels' unimpeded investigation suggested, at the very least, that the area hadn't been transformed into an automatically deadly zone.

Broadway was completely deserted. Manhattan's attention was on the catastrophe of Times Square. There were no witnesses as Lobe passed City Hall.

The first interruption came as she cleared the City Hall Park and the Woolworth Building.

Far enough away from the din of emergency vehicles, she was able to make out the sound just as Caster's telepathic warning reached her. Musical notes. A string instrument. Light in tone, a little flat. Hard to place—somewhere between a mandolin and a ukelele.

Lobe stopped as Caster materialized.

They both felt it. A Servant.

"My scouts aren't reporting," Caster whispered.

The music grew louder.

"Ohohoho." A gentle, jolly laugh came from around the corner. "What a fine night! Such heavenly company for my humble tune."

The speaker strode into view, strumming a small… lute? Cittern? Lobe couldn't place it. He was dressed in a green tunic and hose. He wore a look of dazed joy on his angular, bearded face, and a jaunty feather stood up in his green cap. Around him, the angels danced.

"Oh, let me tell you a tale," he said in a sing-song voice, eyes fluttering shut. "A ballad, if you will, of the night the angels visited old Sherwood."

Unimpressed with Archer's buffoonery, Lobe gave Caster the Holy Grail War's simplest order.

"Kill him."

Caster raised a hand, and a wall of stone erupted from the street behind the bard.

The music stopped. "Oh my!" The player seemed to notice Caster for the first time. "My—my Lord! My Savior!" He went to his knees. "I submit myself to thee, oh God."

Caster raised another wall, perpendicular to the first.

The bard kept speaking.

"Your servant, Allan-a-Dale, should have known upon the first visitation. Truly, the Millennium is here!" He raised his eyes and strummed a few chords. "What a welcome, surrounded by seraphim, practicing my art…"

A third wall burst into place around the bard. He gazed straight into Caster's eyes, surrounded on three sides by stone.

Recognition seemed to flicker in his face. "Ah, yes. The Grail has given me the knowledge. A more _recent_ minstrel tells tales such as these, no? He of Poe, who shares my name. But where is my wine, good Montresor? To immure me, must you not intoxicate me?"

Lobe felt her lip curling as Caster completed the man's prison. Was everyone in this war mad? Karli Dandleton had been affected by a geas, but what force could explain Archer's lunatic ramblings? The fact that he did not even attempt to fight? No matter.

"Do it," she said, and Caster made a fist.

The four walls slammed together. Blue sparks erupted from their juncture, and then they crumbled. The finely flattened bodies of angels littered the ground. Gone was the silly man in green, his mana returned to the Grail.

"That was easy." Too easy. Lobe was uneasy.

"I don't believe that was Archer," Caster said, confirming Lobe's suspicions.

There it was, that tingling in Lobe's Command Seals. She felt it, too. Another Servant.

A large man with a quarterstaff emerged from the shadows. "I spit on the faith," he announced, taking a fighting pose. "They dazzle us with heaven or damn us into hell, and they steal the land of the old godders. If you're here for your tithe, _Christ_ , you'll find it over my dead body."

Lobe sighed. This rambunctious fellow was also dressed in a green costume. Between the uniform, the quarterstaff, and the name the previous Servant had given, Lobe put it together.

"And you're Little John, I take it?" she asked.

"I am," he said. He made no move to approach. He simply held his ground.

Lobe double-checked her earlier count. There were too many Servants. And that multiple Merry Men would be summoned was incredibly improbable. Yet the sensation in her Command Seals was unmistakable, and she had a sense of Little John's parameters, as she did with Caster, as any Master did with any Servant.

No matter. Any number of green tights-wearing buffoons could come forward. Her Caster would crush them all.

"Kill him," she said.

Caster obliged. Little John put up more of a fight than Allan-a-Dale had, stepping away from the basic crushing wall trap, using his staff to disrupt some of Caster's construction. But ultimately, his parameters were too low, and Caster overwhelmed him. Wave after wave of stone masonry rose up from the ground, buffeting the big outlaw until he was a pulp on the pavement.

Were all Servants this weak?

"Another approaches."

Lobe grunted. "Kill them all."

Another came, and another. One by one, or sometimes in pairs. None provided Caster any challenge. A dozen Servants fell, each dissolving into a shining blue mist.

"How many do you think there are?" Lobe asked during a lull.

"I am only familiar with this legend through the information granted by the Grail," Caster said. "Depending on which adaptations of the early ballads are most widely known, there could be anywhere between ten and one hundred Merry Men."

"Where is your limit?" Lobe asked.

"I don't know," Caster said. "I thought it was an hour ago when you killed my previous Master. But I'm still here."

"Very funny."

"More tragic than funny," Caster snapped.

"Indeed, my Lord." The voice came from the distance, low, soft, frail. "Of the utmost tragedy."

"Another one?" Lobe sighed.

"Indeed, Milday." There was a scraping sound on the street as a dark form lumbered closer. "Though, despite being counted among their number, I would rarely name myself Merry."

Stepping into the glow of the nearest streetlight, the old man dragged himself forward. He was hunched over, portly, gray where he wasn't tonsured. His body was draped in scratchy-looking brown robes. With one hand he leaned on a gnarled oak branch. With the other, he held the forearm of the body across his back.

"Please, my Lord," he croaked, looking up with foggy eyes. "If you must kill me, do so, but pray delay my end a fleeting minute. I would see this lass restored."

Lobe rolled her eyes at this pathetic incarnation of Friar Tuck. Yet another rambling noncombatant. Still, when Caster looked to her for direction, she nodded. She wanted the world on her side, after all. To deny the old clergyman his dying wish for expediency's sake would ruin her narrative, compromise her edge.

"I am no saint, my Lord," the friar stated bluntly. "I have sinned, many, many times. Always in service to the neediest, the meekest, but that is no excuse before you. I seek no forgiveness, but justice. Justice for me—whatever that looks like—and justice for this poor girl."

"You shall have your justice, Brother." Caster put a hand on the old man's bald crown. "I swear it before Adonai almighty."

The friar teared up, bowing repeatedly. "You are great. I cannot thank you enough."

This went on. Lobe tapped her foot impatiently, but said nothing.

Finally, Tuck finished his prostrations and rolled the girl off his back and onto the pavement. "Can you save her, Lord?"

Caster said nothing. Lobe seethed.

The girl lying on the street before them was none other than Karli Dandleton.

She breathed.

After a moment, Caster dropped to his knees and took one of Karli's limp hands in his.

"What ails her?" he asked, gently.

"Some affliction of the mind," Tuck replied. "The Grail suggests she has been 'lobotomized.'"

Lobe snorted.

Caster nodded. _You gave me permission to fulfill this man's request, did you not?_

Lobe sighed. _I did._

Caster smiled.

"Brother, I can save the girl's mind. Thank you for bringing her to me."

This sent Tuck into another series of grateful prayers and prostrations. While he groveled, Caster put his hands on Karli's forehead.

_Do it quickly, and do it simply._

Caster laughed. "Master, there is no simple cure. You can't carve a wooden figurine with a sword. Besides, the very nature of this deterioration—a physical wound to the brain—is the result of your cleaving to simplicity in removing the geas. You would have a flat Earth by the time you finished solving all your problems with sledge hammers."

_What are you saying?_

"I'm saying this is going to be a process, and I'm going to need a lot of mana. We left those orchids in Karli's room, so I'm going to need you to supply me with more power through our bond."

Lobe shook her head. "There will be more enemies. I need my reserves."

"Then I won't be able to cure her, something I am bound to do."

The miscalculation was a Hubert-level mistake.

Lobe was impatient. Friar Tuck's incessant groveling was distracting her. The hostility of the city itself was unnerving. And her own constructed anger over Bennis's death was receding quickly. She felt the world retreating from its place at her back. Time was slipping away.

"Crack on with it," she ordered, opening herself to Caster.

The ground around Karli emanated a pure, pearlescent glow as Caster channeled mana into the girl's head. The spectacle was enough to silence Tuck, who watched in awe. Lobe allowed herself to be impressed, and that was the third to last thing she ever felt.

As the mana flowed from her body, her projectile-deflecting magecraft faded.

First came the vexation, the recognition of her mistake, the comparison to Hubert.

Then came the stabbing pain in her heart.

 

# # #

 

Archer dematerialized his bow and jumped down from the roof of the Woolworth Building, landing behind the old friar, one of his few surviving comrades.

The others came out of the woodwork—Marian, Will, Gilbert, Much, Reynold, the Scotchman. Though they had lost companions, they marveled at their victory. They had figured on Caster being their toughest opposition in the Holy Grail War, but they had successfully burned his resources to the point where he'd needed to weaken his Master's defenses in order to fulfill Tuck's undeniable request.

As the survivors of the Merry Men formed a circle around the body of Karli Dandleton—a close friend of Archer's previous Master—Caster looked up at them.

The girl's breathing was easier, calmer.

"I have done as the Brother requested," Caster said. "Karli Dandleton is healed, and will think again."

Archer nodded. "And now you return to the Throne of Heroes, Prophet."

Caster nodded back. He didn't look particularly upset. Already his form was starting to blur at the edges. Without a mana source, he would dematerialize within minutes, and in short order be erased from this plane entirely.

"I would have liked to win the Grail," he said. It wasn't a complaint. Just a fact. "I would have wished for the repentance of my fellow man."

"We have our differences, you and I," Archer said. "But we have our similarities. I will use the Grail for good."

Caster gazed into Archer's eyes. "You would take sin upon yourself to save the world."

Archer smiled, despite himself. He extended a hand to Caster.

The prophet stood and accepted the hand shake.

"These other Servants—"

"My Noble Phantasm," Archer replied. "Banding. Never Alone: The Merry Alliance."

He waved his hand, and the others vanished. Archer and Caster alone stood in the street, Karli at their feet.

Caster faded further. "I… am impressed by your valor. The legends shown me by the Grail depict a rowdy outlaw, a partisan in squabbles of the nobility, a vigilante."

Archer chuckled. "The Grail isn't wrong! But the same epithets could be flung your way, my friend."

Caster's lips parted. "Friend?"

"Please," Archer said, waving a hand. "Are we not equals?"

Caster stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I am simply not used to such treatment, though I preached it."

"And none listened, for they sought icons, the material divine." Archer rolled his eyes. "Just as I am but one of many who bore the mantle of Hood, so too are you but one of many who sought to fulfill the prophecies of the Son of Man. The Grail can't summon actual gods."

"I kept _saying_ I wasn't God," Caster insisted.

"And they would ask, 'then what are you?'" Archer pulled Caster into a tight hug. "Next time, you'll have this to tell them: _I am one of Robin Hood's Merry Men_."

The last of Caster dissolved in Archer's embrace.

Archer dragged Karli out of the street, up onto a park bench in front of City Hall.

As a heroic spirit, Archer was far from the strongest. His parameters were mediocre, his Noble Phantasm nigh useless in close combat. But here, in New York City, he was stronger than he would be almost anywhere else. Heroic spirits were legends, and the nature of their emanations correlated to the nature of those legends where they were summoned. In New York City, in 2017, in the middle of the revival of mass socialist sympathies, Archer's legend was deeply entangled with the popular call for a "Robin Hood Tax." His purported valor no doubt correlated to this latest evolution.

On top of that, he had the best Master a Servant could ask for: the isle of Manhattan itself.

An extension of the world.

An infinitely old, eminently just liege.

Archer put a cloak over Karli's sleeping form, and then he vanished into the night.

 

# # #

 

Hubert's sanctuary was dark when Dalthera arrived. She shut the door behind her and walked down the stairs.

" _Sowilo._ "

Light billowed out from her fingertips, coalescing into an orb that floated up toward the ceiling. She was alone. She had spent hours in her icy Reality Marble. Were none of the others done with their tasks?

Just as she took a seat in one of the pews, the door opened. She turned, expecting to see one of her Thule Society colleagues.

Instead, Dalthera saw a stranger descending the stairs.

A tall, pale woman, with a human heart in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two deaths and one revival! Jesus does one good thing before getting absolutely **punked** by Robin Hood. Or would "while" work better than "before"?
> 
> On the subject of Robin Hood, for folks who know him from Extra or Fate/GO: orange-haired druidic Robin Hood is, according to canon, just one of the nameless outlaws who used the name. Here, I present another. An interesting question is where do Noble Phantasms come from? If they come from the legend itself, then every Hood would have the same ones. And I've added one here. (Though, without having named it, I do still see him as using the canon May King invisibility in a few parts of this fic.)
> 
> Maybe the legend of Extra/FGO Robin has just changed since 2017. Maybe NYC's warping effect on the legend affects Noble Phantasms, too. Or maybe the individual is also a factor in determining available Noble Phantasms—maybe this Hood was more gregarious than the druid Hood.
> 
> I'm open to discussion on this topic, as well as any other. Thanks as always for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know your thoughts below 🦊


	34. 19 - The Mourning of the Third Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jass's resolve continues to fluctuate in the wake of the horrors she's experienced. Onson Sweemey is a sad boy. 
> 
> C/W potentially upsetting corpse imagery.

In the distance, a phone was ringing.

It seemed impossible.

The only one who had called her back was Anatoli, and he was dead. _Dead._

Jass scrabbled out of the pit of sleep, panting.

_Dead._

Bobsom's death had been grotesque, but Saber had pulled her from the scene before she could fixate on his crumbling corpse. Similarly, she had been urgently dragged away from Anatoli's body.

This was different.

Hours had passed. The dorm room was bright, well-lit by the mid morning sun.

She could make out every detail of the corpse next to her.

Rey.

Her parched lips were slightly agape. A bit of dried blood crusted on her chin. The center of her vest was caved in, stained black. Her cold loins and legs stuck out from the vest unceremoniously. Her death wasn't a flash. Her death was _here._

Jass felt sick.

Her phone stopped ringing.

"It says it's Karli," said Lancer. "Do you want to call her back?"

The red-haired pirate sat on the floor on the other side of the room, back to the wall by the window. She held Jass's phone in one hand. The other rested in her lap. Her forehead was red. Jass, world spinning, couldn't make out her facial expression.

_Karli!_

From the floor, Jass reached for the phone.

Something was wrong. Her hand wasn't grasping. Her hand wasn't—

Her hand  _wasn't._

Her wrist was bandaged. Her hand was gone.

_Why doesn't it hurt?_

There was no telepathic response. Neither Lancer nor Saber chimed in. Jass was alone with her wonder.

The barrage of emotions and confusion almost kept her on the floor, but she remembered her wish. Anatoli's wish. The transformation of the world that had been worth a few sacrifices. She had to stand up, to keep fighting. Archer was out there. Caster was out there. _Karli?_

"She's calling again."

What was the point? She looked around for her hand, for Lancer's Command Seals. They were nowhere. Jass closed her eyes, listened to her ringtone. She wasn't a Master anymore. She'd already lost. Her wish was beyond reach.

"Alright," said Lancer. "I'm going to take it."

Something beeped, and Jass's phone stopped ringing.

"No, sorry. She's here, and she's okay, but she can't come to the phone. … Me? I'm Lancer. Her Servant."

_My Servant?_

"Yeah. You're where? Okay. We'll come get you. Yeah. Bye."

Another beep.

"Karli Dandleton has lost her Servant, and wishes to meet with you."

"I said the same thing to—" Jass couldn't finish the sentence. She dragged herself over to Rey's body, leaned her head on her friend's belly. She thought she would cry, but the tears didn't come. She felt hollowed out, as if by some kind of scraping medical instrument. What was left?

_Karli._

"She's scared, Master."

_Master?_

Jass rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. The _Bleach_ poster stared back.

"Master?"

"Aren't you my Master?"

"My Command Seals are gone. You ordered Saber to cut off my hand."

"I…" Lancer trailed off. She took a heavy breath. "You cannot compel me without them, but our contract isn't severed."

Focusing on Ichigo's mask helped Jass continue the conversation. She didn't want to see Lancer's face, didn't want to guess at the meaning of her expressions. The disembodied voice was easier to interact with.

"So I'm just a source of mana, and you're free to do as you please?"

"Your wish is still my own."

"Why should I trust you?"

Lancer didn't reply.

Jass appreciated that. She didn't want to be sweet-talked by the pirate.

They remained in silence for a few minutes.

"Where's Karli?"

"She woke up on a bench by City Hall," said Lancer. "The last thing she remembers is having Caster taken from her by a British magus. She says she doesn't believe herself to be in imminent danger, but she is still scared, and alone."

Jass closed her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position. "I guess I should go get her."

"I'll accompany you."

"No."

"No?"

"If you're my Servant, I have a task for you."

"You would venture across town with no protection, while Caster and Archer remain at large?"

"Are you concerned? Give me back Saber."

More silence. Just as Jass opened her eyes and was about to do her best to glare accusingly at Lancer, a pain shot through her right hand. She glanced down. The back of her hand was a smudged red mess. One well-defined sheep shape remained.

"Are you my Master?" came Saber's disembodied voice.

"Yes," said Jass.

"Was that the task?" asked Lancer.

"No."

Jass struggled to stand, off-balance and weak in the legs. Saber materialized to support her. He kept his head turned, averting his face. The aversion reminded Jass of her isolation—not only abandoned by her dead friends and betrayed by her Servants, but scorned by Raul and Onson, sneered at for the line she'd used to trap Rider. Even in Saber's arms, she'd never felt so alone.

To move forward, to give the order, she had to remember that she wasn't the only one who had lost Rey. She wasn't the only one suffering.

"Rey had a lover named Bren Carter. Bren is the closest thing to family she had. Bring Bren the body. Apologize to Bren. Help Bren through this."

Lancer took a deep breath.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"You won't be able to use a Command Seal to summon me if you wind up in danger."

"That's on you, Grace."

"Noted." Lancer stood, approached, scooped up Rey's lifeless body. "Be safe."

She wrapped Rey in her cloak and left the room.

"Saber," said Jass, when they were alone.

"Master," said Saber.

"You need to answer some questions as we go."

"I will do what I can, Master."

They left, too, after giving Lancer enough of a head start that they wouldn't share an elevator. Jass found that after a few steps she was able to walk just fine, hiding the stump of her wrist in her hoodie pocket. Saber dematerialized to avoid drawing undue attention, and the two made their way downstairs and out into the last day of November.

As they walked toward City Hall, they communicated telepathically.

Saber was angry with Lancer. He hadn't wanted Rey dead. He wasn't going to stop Jass from using Command Seals to save Rey from Lancer, and he had forced Lancer to use two Command Seals to make him act as he had.

It made sense to Saber that Lancer had wanted to kill Rey: killing the Master is usually an easy route to defeating the Servant, and Lancer was all about easy routes. She was pragmatic to an extreme, something that unsettled Saber. He was more inclined toward deliberation, evaluation. Of course, there were times that required decisive action, like when he'd needed to knock Lancer out in the earlier fight. But he didn't like those times.

None of this, Saber clarified, excused him from his own misdeeds in the Holy Grail War.

He'd hidden something from Jass.

_I got that feeling. Lancer said your lyre couldn't save me._

_Indeed. I did not say anything because I still do not know what it actually_ is. _But you are under the effects of some form of mind-affecting magic that my lyre cannot lift. It is something physical, like a geas but different. I am not sure how it works. I had never encountered anything like it before, though I have now seen its mark on each of your friends._

_My friends?_

_Raul and Onson. Anatoli before he died. Rey, too, though she was more profoundly affected by Rider's compulsions._

_We're all under the effects of this thing?_

_Yes._

_How do you sense these things? I had no idea!_

_My Magic Resistance gives me a reflexive feel for enchantments, though it does not grant me any deeper knowledge of them. Any magus such as yourself, though, should be able to learn detection thaumaturgies._

_I'll make a note to study up._ Jass rolled her eyes as she sent the thought. If she survived this war, if she emerged victorious, she would fundamentally change the world. The material conditions for conflict would be eliminated. Without war, without scarcity, without inequality, would she need to pursue her newfound magical talents? Would she need to worry about hostile magecraft?

A sinking feeling began to engulf her.

She'd assumed that this Holy Grail War was a one-off event, that magic would exit the equation upon its conclusion. Why had she assumed that? Hubert was a magus. The creepy woman who had accosted her in the alleyway, Dalsomething Garsomething, had mentioned a Mage Association. Now Karli reported having her Servant stolen by another magus.

Magic was a fact of the world that Jass had yet to incorporate into her paradigms, and she had no idea what that meant for her historical materialist analysis, what that meant for her wish.

She dragged her feet as the doubt suffused her.

What if everything she'd learned as a socialist was wrong? Their analysis never accounted for mana, for British wizard cults. There was a whole layer of the world, unaccounted for. Maybe Jass's wish would succeed in upending capitalism, but how would these shadowy magi interact with her upended society?

For the umpteenth time in two days, Jass felt hopelessly stupid. The Grail War had been a brutal rollercoaster of hopes and despairs. Jass hated rollercoasters.

And nowhere was the rollercoaster more sudden in its motion than in the moment when Jass stepped into City Hall Park and saw Karli Dandleton.

Her heart leapt, joy and relief cascading through her soul. And then, just as quickly, she saw Karli's own look of joy, and realized the other girl didn't know Anatoli and Rey were dead.

Unsure how she'd ever manage to tell her these things, she froze. As Karli approached, her breathing accelerated.

"You're hyperventilating," Karli said, softly.

Jass tried to deny her, but Karli wasn't wrong, and she couldn't get a single word out. She was vaguely aware of Saber materializing to catch her as she lost her balance.

 

# # #

 

When Onson walked through the door at 1:30 a.m., he was given a hero's welcome. His roomies Pearl and Ryan, smelling of bong rips, potato chips, coconuts, and sex—their typical Wednesday night routine—, were inclined to celebrate his return. They started to make the tired jokes about how he was never around, how they felt like they had a ghost for a roommate.

Onson simply stood aside, holding the door. He had no words, and Raul entered without introduction.

It was Pearl who saw the gravity in their faces through the red rings in her eyes, who stumbled over something about giving them space. She pulled Ryan back into the bedroom, vacating the living room where Onson lived on an Ikea sleeper sofa. Onson indicated that Raul should take the BALKARP, and then he collapsed on the floor.

He was unable to sleep, however.

Images of Rey haunted him.

He pictured Jass taking his crush to bed, touching Rey where she'd invited him to touch her. Intimately familiar with both women and cursed with an active sensory imagination, he watched them go down on each other, penetrate each other, bring each other to orgasm. Jass, confident, entitled, outlined in triumphant orange flame. Rey, cold with dead eyes.

~

Onson was still in the firm grip of this daymare when the front door opened and Saber entered, Jass limp in his arms. At first he thought he was hallucinating from lack of sleep. _Didn't Jass break her contract with Saber?_ That had been the condition for Rider releasing him and Onson. The haze in his mind cleared rapidly as drew closer. There were too many twists to keep up with. What mattered was that Jass was here, that she was not okay.

"Jass!"

He scrambled to his feet, tripping over bags of chips and water bottles. The ruckus woke Raul, who sat slowly.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Raul asked in his most sardonically polite affectation.

"Uh, hi guys," said Karli, voice small, emerging from behind Saber.

"We been here before," Raul said dismissively. "Listen, leave us alone. We not Masters anymore."

"Neither am I!" cried Karli.

"Shhhh," said Onson, helping Saber deposit Jass gently on the couch. "You'll wake my roommates."

Raul harrumphed. "Maybe five minutes 'fore we hostages again, Onson."

"No," said Saber.

His voice calmed the room. Onson hadn't heard him speak much, besides the explanation of Berserker's Noble Phantasm back in Hubert's basement sanctuary. His tone, the quality of the note of that single syllable, had an effect on Onson's heart. And Onson saw the same reflected in Raul's eyes, in Karli's. It wasn't unlike how Jerry spoke at times. A gentleness bordering on magic.

After a pause, Karli clicked the door closed behind herself. "Can I grab some water from your kitchen?"

"Of course," said Onson.

He turned to Saber. "What happened?"

"My Master is not doing well." That much was obvious. "We have had some… misfortune in this Holy Grail War. But the number of our remaining enemies dwindles, and this will all soon be done. Karli suggested I bring my Master here to recover from what she called a panic attack."

"When she saw me, she started panicking," Karli said as she returned from the kitchen, glass of water in hand. "She totally freaked out."

Onson thought back to his encounters with Jass during the war. She'd seethed, lost control, punched him. Had Karli done something to piss her off? To scare her? No. He was projecting again. Karli wasn't describing rage. She was describing something else—anxiety?

Saber took Karli's glass, dribbled a few drops on Jass's brow.

"She will recover in short order," Saber said. "When she comes to, please remind her that you support her, that you are her friends."

Karli nodded enthusiastically.

Raul grumbled.

"Friends? She shat on our sacrifices, shat on her wish, then fucked Rey when she was under mind control."

Onson's mind flashed back to the images it had conjured. Nausea overtook him.

"She did none of those things," Saber said. He held the room, the confidence with which he spoke palpable. "We engineered two deceptions. First, that my Master had left the war. She remained the Master of Lancer. Second, that she wished to be intimate with Rey McSriff. I know her thoughts, as one linked to her mind. She was disgusted with the mental control Rider exerted over his Master. She lied twice—first, to save you, then, to force a clean fight with Rider."

Waves of relief washed away the nausea.

"So she didn't—"

"No."

"And Rey's... fine?"

Saber shook his head slowly. "Fine is not a word to be used when discussing matters in a Holy Grail War."

The gravity of the statement sobered Onson's relief. His mind floated into a neutral space, and once there, he finished processing everything Saber had said.

_Master of Lancer?_

"Where's Anatoli?"

Saber bowed his head. "Rider set an ambush when Times Square collapsed."

_No._

"Lancer's and my emanations were briefly disrupted by the mana activity around the catastrophe."

_No._

"That's when he struck."

_No!_

"By the time we rushed to their sides, Anatoli had perished."

Onson plopped down on the couch between Jass and Raul, feeling as though his heart would drag him through the sofa, through the floor, through to the center of the Earth. Bobsom was bad enough. Anatoli? The rock-solid core of the group?

Raul put an arm around Onson's shoulder, weeping. Karli was on her knees by the couch, bawling.

Jass stirred.

As she opened her eyes, Onson met her gaze. He hadn't been able to, the last few times they'd seen each other. Even with the uneasy understanding that Bobsom's death hadn't been his conscious choice, he'd felt the inescapable guilt, the judgment in her eyes. Now that was gone. Jass looked hurt and small, her expression devoid of judgment. She needed her friends, those that remained. She needed the intimacy that Jerry had helped them develop.

Onson leaned in and kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around him, enthusiastically returning the embrace.

Something felt off. Her right hand grasped at the material of Onson's shirt, bunching it over his spine. Her left arm was around him, too, but there was no second grip on his back. Onson drew back.

Her left arm ended in a bandaged stump, barely protruding from her hoodie sleeve.

"Jass—"

"It's okay," she murmured. "I've lost worse."

"May I?" asked Karli, shuffling forward on her knees.

Onson nodded, scooting away on the couch. Karli leaned forward and grasped both of Jass's arms just above the elbow. "Just last night, I was sure I'd never do this again. We were enemies. Now I can't even remember why I was fighting."

Jass nodded. Their lips met. Onson found himself smiling at their passionate kiss.

When it broke, Raul came in, wordlessly. He kissed her forehead, her ears, sucked on her lower lip, all in small, tender motions.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Jass said after Raul moved away. "I think I was losing myself."

"We all got a little lost when this started," Karli offered. "Still no word from Jerry? Some weird priest told me he was dead, but that can't be right."

"Hubert?" Jass asked.

"Yeah, that rings a bell."

"He told me the same thing," Onson said.

"But he also lied about things, right? He lied to me about my Servant," Karli said. "He told me that Caster was Jesus Christ, the Lord returned, but I know that's not right. I made Caster talk. He was just a preacher who matched a prophecy. I don't think the Grail can actually summon gods."

Saber nodded. "I can confirm that Caster is not God Himself."

"But that don't mean Hubert lied 'bout everything," Raul interjected. "If Jerry's around, where he at?"

"He's here," Jass said, placing a hand on her breast. "Can't you all feel him? Like he's just around the corner?"

Onson nodded. That sounded right. Like they were in a hallway of indeterminate length, and their dear professor was just around a bend in the distance. Waiting for them. Jass's eyes widened.

"Jass?"

"Saber," she said, sitting up straight, hazy expression wiped away. "Remember when I said I had no idea?"

"No idea about what, Master?"

"The spell we're under. I asked how you sense these things, that I had no idea something was affecting us?"

"Ah, yes."

Onson looked to Karli, who shrugged.

"Well, I think I _can_ sense something! I've felt it in Jerry's office before. The feeling that there are others in there with me, a feeling that there's more to the space."

Saber nodded. Jass continued.

"Like, I always dismissed it as a daydream, or something, but then I felt it again, last night, when Hubert showed up and killed Rider."

"Hubert?!" Raul couldn't contain himself. "How in the fuck? We left him bound in his basement hellhole."

"That's the thing," said Jass. "He came out of nowhere—like he was walking around a bend in a hall. He appeared, one-armed, tired-looking, cut Rider down, and then walked through a wall and was gone."

"Were you hallucinating?"

"I saw the same," Saber said. "Or close enough. The priest appeared, slew Rider, then disappeared. And that reminds me, Master."

"Yes?"

"I mentioned that you and your friends were all under the effects of this… thing?"

"Yes."

"So was the priest. And so were the orchids Rider held."

Onson chewed on that for a moment, saw the gears turning in his friends' heads. The orchids were Jerry's. The orchids were focii. Vessels of mana, centers of attention, nodes transmitting the love between himself and his friends. Jerry's experiment.

He looked at Jass, who was now frowning, then at Raul, then at Karli. In unison, their shared illusion wavered. Jerry was no angel. He'd lied to them, drawn them into this Grail War, put them all in mortal danger. And he was still fucking with them. Even if he was dead, his machinations persisted beyond the grave.

"How do we get out?" Jass asked Saber.

The king shook his head. "I can only hope awareness of this force helps prevent it from dominating you. I have no suggestions other than that we finish the war and bring your wish to fruition quickly."

Jass nodded.

"I feel better," she said. "This helped. I feel… centered."

"Can you fight?" Saber asked.

She stood, tested her strength. With a brief look of concentration she conjured a wreath of flames. It danced around her momentarily, and then she dismissed it.

"Let's do it." She turned to her friends, lingered on Onson. "Doubts hit me hard, but I'm not alone anymore. I'm going to win this, and I'm going to change the world. I will honor our fallen, and lift the billions."

"Is there anything we can do?" Onson asked. He was tired of feeling useless. This was almost over. If he had any way to help Jass, he would.

"You've granted me power," Jass said. "Mana. You've refreshed me. All of you. That's something Jerry definitely didn't lie about, by the way."

Onson and the others nodded.

"There is one more thing, actually." Jass paused by the door. "I might ask your forgiveness. I have some bad news."

"Saber already told us about Anatoli."

She shook her head. "More bad news, Sonion."

Onson's breath caught in his throat. _No._

"I couldn't save her."

Saber held the door for Jass, and then they were gone. Karli and Raul stayed. They were saying things, and touching Onson, but he didn't register any of it.

The main thing he felt, for hours after, was an unsourced lack of surprise. Where did it come from? He had no idea. He just _knew_ , somehow, that he'd already _known._ That Rey had been beyond saving. That he'd mourned her already, in Raul's embrace, in that tortuous hour before Jass showed up to confront Rider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little "happens" in this chapter, but I made a lot of messes in the last couple, and I needed to do some tidying. Also, I think I'm still getting the pieces into position for the finale. The kids are becoming more aware of the labyrinth...
> 
> This was supposed to be a bit shorter, actually, and to be accompanied by a steamy Dalthera scene. The tone didn't work, though, so I expanded some of the angst and you'll get the Garleyel heiress next chapter. 🦊
> 
> As always, I welcome any and all feedback. Now more than ever, honestly, as I prepare to dive into the story's conclusion.


	35. 20 - The World's Wet Blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dalthera Garleyel's nature is a double-edged sword. She accepts an important job, and struggles with herself.

"Eat this," the pale woman said.

She passed the heart to Dalthera with a limp underhand toss. It fell short and squelched on the floor before rolling to rest by Dalthera's shoes.

"I beg your pardon," Dalthera said.

She'd encountered her share of bizarre situations. It was impossible to come into one's own as a magus without encountering the weird, and her esoteric journey through the cults of the Wandering Sea to the Thule Society hadn't exactly insulated her from the dark underbelly of magus practice. She'd seen horrors, enacted horrors. But always there was a reason. A ritual. A narrative explaining the purpose of the act: a natural counterbalance, in a way, opposed to mystery _._

So never in her years had Dalthera been right where she was now: utterly baffled.

"It's a magus heart," the pale woman said, drawing nearer. Blood still dripped from her fingertips. "You need mana."

She did. Projecting her Reality Marble for hours had completely spent her reserves and then some. She owed the world a sizeable debt. But how did this stranger—

"You are confused." The pale woman smiled disarmingly, which only befuddled Dalthera further. She wasn't used to being disarmed. "That won't do. The world needs you in prime condition. Physically, mentally, spiritually. We need to refill you fast, and dispel your fears. Are you on board with that?"

"You're not here to hurt me?"

"No."

Normally, Dalthera would scrutinize her interlocutor, guess at her motives. She might even weave in a Read or subtle Croon, using the Six Arts to obtain deeper information. Now she had neither tool available. The pale woman was inscrutable, the circumstances of her appearance beyond Dalthera's grasp. And, as the other woman had noticed, Dalthera had no mana with which to perform magecraft.

That stuck in Dalthera's mind. She'd noticed— _how_ had she noticed? Even powerful magi like Lobe Farrys needed incantations to generate mana-scouting magecrafts, and those typically had tells, shining eyes the most common. A Read could do it, but Dalthera would have _felt_ that. What—

"Your lover called it spellsight," the pale woman said, interrupting Dalthera's thoughts. "One of the few things he and Jerry agreed on."

Jerry Cormic, the patsy Hubert had handled? And her lover, she'd had many, but did she mean—

"Yes, Red. Sorry, is this unnerving? Mana dynamics and the patterns of ebb and flow reveal an awful lot. I can look away from you if you'd rather hide your thoughts."

 _If you can read my thoughts, there's not much point in lying._ And there was no sense resisting this woman, either. Dalthera was out of tools. She had no strategy available to her besides submission. Maybe Lobe or Bennis would show up to rescue her, but maybe the pale woman wasn't even a threat. Just spooky.

"Yes, I am unnerved. How do you know Red?"

"He saved me from Jerry, six years ago." The woman approached. "Please, eat the heart now. Its potency deteriorates rapidly. I will answer all your questions in time." She paused as Dalthera dithered. "You have eaten grosser things, Dalthera Garleyel."

Dalthera briefly wondered whose—

"Hubert Manweal. An exceptionally dim swordsman whose blundering may have saved the world."

"The world?"

"Eat."

There was no gentle request. This woman who could see into Dalthera's mind, who possessed knowledge of Red and Cormic and Hubert, wasn't asking. She was demanding. Dalthera steeled herself and bent forward, reaching for the heart. It was still warm, and disgustingly soft.

"One bite at a time. I could season it for you, but my understanding is that awareness of the vileness of the act improves the effectiveness."

Dalthera nodded. This was common knowledge in the Thule Society. There was no vileness that she and her compatriots were above, though she'd never had cause to eat a magus's heart before.

She decided to relish it. Hubert was dead. He was a sniveling piece of shit in his final day. Better for him—for all of them—that he was gone before he could bring further disgrace to their cause. And rather than simply surrendering his power to the world, somehow it was finding its way into Dalthera. One bite at a time, Dalthera consumed what little of value remained of Hubert.

"Very good," said the pale woman. "I should introduce myself. My name is El. Following my first encounter with Jerry, I followed Red to the Clock Tower. When your friends sprung Jerry, I felt my soul weaken. I knew he was back to his old tricks, but I didn't know how or why it had an effect on me. I wanted to track him down, but the job was Red's, and I was green. I would have just been in the way.

"Simultaneously, Hubert found me. Maybe that word doesn't make things clearer. When I say simultaneously, it's like—yes. Here's me meeting Red." El held up one index finger. "Here's another me." She held up the index finger of her other hand, moved her fingers to be parallel. "This one's meeting Red, this one's meeting Hubert. These things happened at the same time, to slightly different versions of me. Sorry. When I say they happened at the same time, I guess that's also a bit of a misnomer. English isn't the language best-equipped to describe these things. It's more like the times coincided. But one was six years ago, and the other was just now."

Dalthera had heard weirder stories in the society, stories about True Magic.

"Exactly!" El beamed. "Magic. The Second, to be exact."

Zelretch.

"Yes, yes. I learned about him in class. Well, one of me did. The others—hm. Yes, there were many of me. I guess the simplest way to explain things is to cut to the chase. Dalthera Garleyel, you possess a Reality Marble."

Dalthera recoiled. Her Crest's capabilities were a well-guarded secret, entangled in generations of obfuscatory magecrafts. Even the deepest mind-reading magecraft she knew of whould fail to expose them. And with her whole family dead, the only human who knew—

"Knowing isn't the exclusive domain of humans. Your Reality Marble is a real thorn in my master's side."

Even without her Six Arts senses, Dalthera had been searching El for tells, for insights. She hadn't given up much, but this was a big one. At their essence, Reality Marbles were only a transgression against one entity: Gaia. El could mean no one else. It seemed impossible, but at the same time it explained the timeless air in El's countenance, the self-confidence with which she carried herself, and the spooky directness of her address.

"The world itself commands you?" Dalthera breathed.

El nodded.

"Who _are_ you? You began your thaumaturgical studies six years ago, and Gaia has already made you one of its champions?"

"Alaya, to be more specific," El said. "Dalthera Garleyel. You have a remarkable ability. Your Crest, your Reality Marble, your nature—you represent a singular confluence of power in a certain domain. The fruition of your lineage. Never before has humanity produced a magus so uniquely skilled."

Dalthera frowned. "You flatter me."

"No, no. It's true that you're only mediocre with the Arts, and that you never built a particularly stellar mana pool for yourself. But you have something else, a perfectly polished lens. We must bring that lens to bear on Jerry."

"Cormic? He's dead."

"His body has been destroyed in this world," El said sadly. "Too little, too late. The minotaur within him has been building an extradimensional labyrinth for the better part of two decades and filling it with the souls of his test subjects. Everywhere they go on this Earth, his labyrinth expands.

"I know this because I was trapped, and trapped again, and trapped again, dozens of times, by my connections to others in the labyrinth. On his roundabout quest for the Cup of Heaven, your Hubert collected the fragments of my soul. The Cup of Heaven rematerialized them. In the moment of my actualization by the Grail, I made a pact with the world."

This would have sounded more farfetched had Dalthera not been part of the plot to recreate the Greater Grail System in the first place. She was familiar with Jerry's magic and experiments, how the kids became trapped. She hadn't heard a thing about a labyrinth, but the word minotaur rang a bell—she'd been there when Waters had passed over her to give Hubert the assignment. The mythological creature had cropped up in the conversation, but she'd been so angry—so alone—that she hadn't parsed its meaning.

"Where do I fit into this?"

"The labyrinth is a threat. At its core, it is a grimy approximation of the Second Magic, a distortion in the operation of parallel worlds. It's somewhere in between a perpetual Reality Marble and a separate dimension. Because of its abnormal status, the world can't automatically erase it. But the connections forged in the labyrinth are sapping mana from this Earth. The world wants it gone."

"And my 'lens,' as you referred to it, will do what exactly?"

"You will sever the connections," El said. "You will isolate the minotaur. You will isolate the labyrinth."

Dalthera considered the mission. A lieutenant of the world, of Alaya, the "counterforce" that protected humanity from extinction, sought to deputize her, use her nature to prevent tragedy. Alaya didn't act whimsically. That El was here was proof that humanity was in danger.

"That's a good way of looking at it," said El, again reading Dalthera's thoughts.

Dalthera felt warmth coursing through her. Wasn't this what Thule was all about? Saving humanity? Perpetuating its best elements into the future? Dalthera couldn't say she was fighting for her race if she turned away from the species.

"I would have made the same appeal." El smiled.

And when else had Dalthera's nature been of use? Of value? It had pushed away every person she'd ever loved. It had made her a weird outcast even among the weird outcasts in the Wandering Sea. It had few combat applications and didn't help her pursue any cause-furthering research. It was its own strand of mystery, cultivated over centuries, to no apparent end. Until now.

"You could say this is your destiny."

Dalthera nodded. She felt… good. No doubt in part due to the mana resurging within her upon the consumption of Hubert's heart, but there were other factors. She was amazed at her own enthusiasm for this mission, for the sense of purpose and import it gave her. And there was another thing.

El's smile.

Dalthera didn't think of herself as particularly in tune with looks, physical attraction, the superficial. She couldn't have been, to have loved Red so. She'd had her share of romances, always stemming from something beneath the surface: a kindness, a shared interest, an ease of togetherness. And while she _knew_ that some people were more attractive than others, she'd never _felt_ it.

Now she felt something, even as her usual cool detachment told her El wasn't particularly beautiful—too pale, a little gangly, with colorless hair in a shapeless style. But El's smile, something about El's smile—was it the curve of it? The hint of teeth? The slight bulge of her upper lip?—something about it was exciting something in Dalthera.

"I'm sorry," said El. "I don't mean to."

The feeling passed. Dalthera blinked.

"I didn't make it to the Clock Tower until Red saved me, but Jerry was technically my first teacher. It's hard to turn off the manaetic charms."

"That's why you need me," Dalthera laughed, surprising herself. "I will be the world's wet blanket."

"Yes, and we need to act fact," El said. "The punctured land stirs. Already thousands have perished as a result of the Grail's presence in Manhattan. Gaia's retribution will only increase in pitch."

"Let's crack on with it, then." Dalthera stood. "Where do we start?"

"You'll need more mana," El said, stepping closer. "Hubert's heart has you near your normal limits, but we need to push past those if we hope to contain the labyrinth."

Dalthera pulled a quick Read on herself to confirm the state of her mana pool, and nodded.

"I could find some more magi?"

"There are very few magi in the area," El replied. "Manaquakes scare them off. The only magus within miles right now is Jass Bonzalez, and she must live."

"What happened to Lobe and Bennis?"

"Killed by Servants."

"Figures." Dalthera didn't feel sad for their loss. They were nothing to her; rivals, if anything. She began searching for new mana sources. "I could construct a sapping territory."

"Too slow," said El. "And too dangerous, given the current state of the city."

"Do you have any suggestions?"

"I could transfer mana to you," El said. The smile was back, as was the warmth.

Of course.

Mana transfer. Ritual sex.

How it worked, why it worked, had never made sense—until Cormic's theses, drawn out of him in his trial six years earlier. Extreme intimacy conferred extreme significance, and this significance, this emotional bond, was a pathway for mana. The theses had turned the Wandering Sea upside down. All sorts of respectable Clock Tower magi had broken away after the revelations, falling into the Sea's various cults, seeking to replicate parts of Cormic's experiments—Bennis Litzgerbald chief among them.

The precise mechanisms required further study, but sexual mana transfer had been elevated from a black box practice to a well-understood tactic.

It made sense. If Dalthera needed more mana to complete El's mission, it was only reasonable for El to provide that extra mana. Another Read almost blinded Dalthera as she tried to scope out El's mana pool. El had a lot to give. There was no reason to say no.

"Are you sure?" El asked.

"You're in my head," replied Dalthera.

"You're not sure."

"I'm not?"

El smiled again. "This may be rude, but you strike me as someone who is not always in touch with her feelings."

Red had said the same thing when they broke up.

"You miss him."

 _Too much._ Dalthera turned away, walked up the aisle. "Please get out of my head."

"Understood. I've closed my eyes," El said. "The flow of mana is dimmed. I can't guess at your thoughts. Let me know what you would like to do, but please consider our options quickly."

Dalthera grappled with El's accusation. It was completely correct. She wasn't an introspecter, and, until Red had pulled away, she had never been asked to introspect. She had fumbled through her relationships with others haphazardly, unaware of deeper desires or needs. She'd always blamed her nature, but now her nature was what she needed. She just had to connect with one more person, to power up. Why would she not be ok with it?

"I will bed you," Dalthera said, attempting to project confidence. "I want you blindfolded, though."

"Wonderful," said El.

The pale woman, eyes still closed, removed her own shirt and tied it around her face, leaving only her mouth and chin exposed. Her thin torso was even paler, almost brighter, as if an alabaster glow suffusing her had its origin between her small breasts.

"Shall I stand? Or sit? Or lie?"

Dalthera approached her and guided her to the stone floor. El's hand was uncomfortably hot in Dalthera's, almost scalding. It was always like this when she touched people. The feeling usually receded after a few minutes, but the initial contact burned. Red had posited that, prolonged, the heat might melt Dalthera, compromise her nature. In all their copulations, this had never come to pass. Now, as ever, Dalthera powered through the pain.

She massaged El's shoulders and upper arms, brushed her knuckles down her torso, gripped her hips, moved back to cup her breasts, eased into a gentle tug on her nipples. El was responsive. Her back arched, her nipples stiffened and grew. Her hands went for the collar of Dalthera's mauve jacket.

El's lips did that thing, and Dalthera felt herself warming from the inside. With the rest of El's head covered, the effect of her smile seemed amplified. Two things atypical of Dalthera happened in response. First, the pain she felt upon touching El receded almost instantaneously. Second, she felt herself getting wet.

"Kiss me," El begged, and Dalthera obliged her.

Normally she would never kiss someone during foreplay. The pain would be too severe. She reserved kissing for the final moments before orgasm, when she had acclimated to the contact and was far gone in her pleasure. Now, she savored it, and it deepened her excitement. As Dalthera leaned over El, exploring the other woman's mouth with her tongue, she felt El shifting beneath her, wriggling out of her skinny jeans. A moment later, El took Dalthera's hand in hers and guided it to her vulva.

Dalther recoiled, breaking the kiss, pulling away, drawing back on her knees.

"What's wrong?"

What _was_ wrong?

It…

Dalthera concentrated. What was she feeling?

It felt…

What felt what?

 _It_ felt _wrong!_

Dalthera grew impatient with herself. This was a thaumaturgical ritual, a transfer of mana. All she had to do was to go through the motions. Bring her partner to orgasm. Imbibe her fluids.

No.

No, she had to do something else. She had to _care_. She had to _enjoy_ it.

"What's wrong, Dal?"

Red had called her that. Red had—

Red had what? A penis?

Few Mage Association magi were avowed bisexuals, but fewer yet would take issue with transferring mana beyond the bounds of their day-to-day sexuality. Dalthera struggled to understand herself. Was she upset? Did she not want to fuck this girl?

She couldn't figure it out. And El had said they were out of time.

El sat up and leaned toward Dalthera, seeking her out blindly. "C'mere, Dal."

"No."

"No?"

"No." Dalthera reached over and pulled El's shirt off her head. Maybe the agent of the world would see, with her purported "spellsight," what Dalthera was unable to grasp.

The pale woman squinted as she adjusted to the light, then nodded slightly. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," El said, gently. She drew Dalthera into a chaste hug. "I said that you'll need to be in prime condition for this mission, and that includes your mood. None of this will work if you force yourself into sex you regret."

"But I said I'd—"

"Shhhh." El squeezed Dalthera. The pain was gone. "You said yes, and now you're saying no, and that's okay."

"What will we do?"

"I can offer you blood." El stroked Dalthera's back as she held the hug. "It's less effective, but it should do just fine."

"Thank you," Dalthera said.

"No, no," El said. She drew back, picked up her clothes, and stood to dress. "On the contrary, _I_ thank _you._ On behalf of the world."

Dalthera took a couple deep breaths, willing the heat and excitement to flee her body. She needed more time to examine herself. She would revisit these topics later, after completing the task at hand. She cleared her head, then picked herself up off the floor.

After the moment of recovery, El pulled a knife out of nowhere.

"Where was that?"

"The labyrinth," El said, shrugging. She held the knife against her palm. "Let's fill you up and get moving."

Dalthera Garleyel nodded and bent to drink from El's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. This wasn't easy to write, but I think I beat it into shape. :)
> 
> I know this story has had a large stable of politically bad perspective characters, but we're down to the last one, and I hope she's at least a bit interesting. Dalthera has an important role to play. That said, none of this will last long. Two chapters and an epilogue to go, I think.
> 
> There's a lot of Fate BS in this segment. Let's break a few things down for folks who like extratextual exposition...
> 
> Zelretch - Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg is the man who mastered the 'Second Magic' - the operation of parallel worlds. The minotaur's labyrinth operates on some similar principles, allowing it to exist on a 'tangent' to the world, if you will. The simultaneous existence of people within and without the labyrinth—e.g. Jass being in Raul's bedroom, but also in the labyrinth where she can sense others so trapped—is enabled by this Magic.
> 
> Gaia/Alaya - Gaia is the world. Contrary to what Hubert believed, it has some elements of consciousness and purpose. It seeks to avoid its end. Alaya is a splinter of Gaia created by the significance humans poured into themselves over millennia. It protects humanity specifically from extinction. These aspects of the world—the force & counterforce—are mechanical, unfeeling entities. They occasionally employ biological, feeling entities to meet their goals. I tried to write El as someone who takes shortcuts fitting to fulfilling a world-given task, but also understands the people she's dealing with, and is trying to do 'just enough' to get where she's going. 
> 
> Wandering Sea - It's come up before, but maybe warrants some explanation? The Mage Association has three main "branches"—the Clock Tower, Atlas Academy, and Wandering Sea. Clock Tower gets mentioned a lot—this is kind of the officialdom of the magecraft world, based in London. It includes academia, politics, and judiciary. The Wandering Sea is a collection of esoteric/eccentric cults, including the proto-Nazi Thule Society (an occultist society based on studying runic magic and advancing the Aryan cause).
> 
> Mana transfer - officially in canon, I think 'bodily fluids' are just good conduits of mana, with some hierarchy (saliva -> blood -> ejaculate). But I thought it'd be cute to deepen the justification for mana transfer by tying in Jerry's methods.
> 
> Anyway, enough rambling. There'll be some (combat?) action next week. I don't know why, but I wanted to get this kind of consent given->consent retracted scene into the story. *shrug*
> 
> Thanks as always for reading! 🦊


	36. 21 - The War Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C/W police violence, references to coerced sexual contact.
> 
> Jass Bonzalez and Archer clash in broad daylight. Complications present themselves. Finally, one Servant remains.

 

The whistling was ceaseless. Arrow after arrow cut through the air. If she'd been a normal human, Jass Bonzalez would have died a pincushion. Instead, she burned, surrounding herself in barrier of flames. The arrows turned to ash before they could reach her. She advanced steadily, maintaining her protection. The rain of arrows was steady as well. It hailed on her from the rooftops, a waterfall of shadows playing on the sides of buildings. Bystanders gasped and fled. Emergency sirens whined in the distance.

Jass didn't care. She didn't care about anything Hubert had said about discretion. She didn't care if one or two civilians took hits. None of it would matter soon. It _had_ to stop mattering, or she'd never live with herself.

Saber advanced next to her, swinging wildly as the Merry Men danced around them. Here and there one of them theatened to connect with a short sword or woodsman's axe, but they never landed a hit. They evaded Saber's blows easily, but the superior reach of Goliath's sword meant none of them could close in.

He was too fast, too strong. Or was he too lucky? Despite the seemingly random pattern of his strikes, they deflected every arrow approaching him. He _had_ said his "luck was A rank," without a hint of irony.

Whatever it was that protected him, he seemed less bothered by his adversaries than he might be by mosquitoes.

 _These guys aren't shit,_ Jass thought to Saber. _Why did Lancer struggle so much against them?_

 _With Anatoli as her Master, she was not fighting at full strength,_ Saber replied. _And from what I can gather about the legend of Robin Hood, Archer may be stronger in wooded areas. Either way, we are not making much progress right now._

Right _. I want to try talking to Archer's Master._

Saber addressed their foes, his voice level.

"My Master demands an audience with yours."

"We're past that," huffed Maid Marian, examining her sleeve where it singed when she tried to stab Jass. The green ruffle at the end had turned charcoal gray. "Ours isn't feeling talkative."

"What's your plan?" Jass asked, incredulous. "None of you can hurt us."

"Seems right," said one of the men, breathing heavily and leaning on his axe. "For now."

_For now?_

_They intend to wear you down, Master. To maintain their assault past the point where you can keep your barrier up._

_There's no way all these Servants use less mana than my parlor trick!_

_No,_ answered Saber. _I agree._

So the fight dragged on. Emergency vehicles arrived on the scene. Cops, news choppers. Jass rolled her eyes. She could keep this up for hours. And Archer? He shot the cops. There was screaming, wide-eyed running. Whatever. She threw fire here and there, aiming for the Merry Men, unsure if she could do real damage with her nascent magecraft, more intent on flexing than anything. She could keep this up longer than they could, and she wanted them to know.

More cops arrived. They came in riot gear, with shields, helmets. They had heavy weaponry. They even had a tank.

Over a megaphone, a voice that made Jass's skin crawl informed her that she had to stand down. After her father had been taken, she'd sworn never to stand down. Not to cops.

 _Snipers,_ thought Saber.

Jass looked up and saw them deploying, most taking aim at the source of arrows. Some aimed at her.

_My flames won't stop this._

_Retreat?_ asked Saber.

_And give these green clowns the satisfaction?_

_Do not give in to recklessness, Master._

The Merry Men heaved with exertion, their movements sluggish. They kept more and more distance from Saber. But they were smiling.

"Looks like we got you," Marian smirked, then a tear gas cannister hit her in the head and she crumpled to the ground, dissolving into blue particles.

Jass felt Saber's pain through their bond as he turned to tackle her through her flames. He burned, but they cleared the gas. Two arrows found homes in his back as he covered her.

"This is why the priest recommended discretion," Saber said quickly. "I do not think you should count on him saving you again."

"I fucking wasn't," grumbled Jass, spurting flames toward the riot cops and backing under a metal awning.

The voice on the megaphone repeated itself. "STAND DOWN."

Another voice echoed it, a smaller voice, a nearer voice, a calm female voice. "Please stand down."

Jass ignored both, caught in the rush of her own pyrotechnics. The rain of arrows continued as well, unabated. The cops raised their shields and stepped back. Choppers hovered above, ABC, CNN, cameras trained on the street, on the rooftops. The man with the megaphone shrugged and turned away. Then the choppers' lights went dark, and a single rifle fired. The crack silenced the street. The arrows stopped.

"Fuck, Jass," said El, suddenly standing in the middle of the street, anger staining her pale face.

"El?" Jass blinked.

Around El, the Merry Men were fading.

"We need to protect Archer," El said, shimmering in and out of Jass's view along with a book-filled office. She was frustrated, but Jass understood that it wasn't solely aimed at her. El was frustrated with herself.

"You didn't get here in time," Jass breathed.

_Master?_

"I got held up." El presented her bloody palm by way of explanation.

"Who are you, anyway?"

_Master, who are you talking to?_

"One of you," El said. "No time to say more. Get the _fuck_ out of here, now. I'll do what I can for Archer."

"Why does Archer—"

Jass's words caught in her throat as the earth heaved. An enormous amount of energy erupted from the ground in front of her. She couldn't place a color or a form. Just, _energy_. As it brushed past her, she felt electrified. _Mana?_

Then she was yanked back by the hood of her sweatshirt. Saber had had enough. He grabbed her and ran. The street collapsed behind him, the buildings sagging. Jass looked back in horror as the block went up in flames. She cared more than she'd realized. No wish could erase the fact that hundreds were dying.

She and Saber shared a thought for the first time: _shit._

And that was the last she heard from Saber before he vanished and she was sailing through the air, riding nothing but her own momentum.

Saber had disappeared once before. The ground had opened up like this once before.

The previous night, after their clash with Archer.

She wasn't able to ponder this in much more detail before she crashed into the police line, a flaming bowling ball. Three officers went down in a heap beneath her, and her flames sputtered as the agony of broken bones sent her into shock.

Jass was vaguely aware of the boot on her head and the metal cutting into her wrists before she lost consciousness.

 

# # #

 

Jass became conscious of a rocking motion.

She wondered if the ground was still shaking, how long she'd been out.

But even as she opened her eyes, thoughts of Manhattan fled her. There was no ground to shake, here, just the ceaseless tumult of the waves. Her wrists chafed from rope, not handcu—she'd fallen asleep. Shit. Dreaming of an alien time and place, when the most important mission of her life lay ahead. She gazed into the gray distance. A cloudy sky. Choppy waters and white cliffs. The Isle of Wight slowly receding port-side.

She wished she were on her own ship, the _Lady O'Malice_ , but they hadn't let her take it. She'd had to submit to English handlers, English seamen. They could barely navigate their own channel.

She wondered idly if this was all a mistake.

Was she simply turning herself in, turning in her cause?

The knives still on her body kept her on track.

She closed her eyes again. Metal scraped on stone, shoes squeaked on some distant floor.

No, she needed to stay focused.

She forced her eyes open and found herself facing her mortal enemy. The old woman sat stiff in her seat, dressed down to disrespect. She spoke in crisp Latin.

"What are you going to do with all those knives, Gráinne?"

Jass paused. She was bound no longer. The English guards were gone. It was just her and the queen, in a small drawing room. The space was illuminated with the flicker of the fireplace, and it was oddly quiet. Home was never so quiet. She could hear the fire and her own heartbeat. She hesitated.

"I suppose we both have inflated reputations." The old woman sighed. "Why _are_ you here?"

"Freedom."

"Please," heaved the old woman. "Have a seat."

Jass sat, her array of skirts bunching and her knives pressing into her skin.

"I have a lot of respect for you, Gráinne. But from one old woman to another, you're off track. The futures of our respective kingdoms are not ours to decide. I am a puppet, and you are a fossil. We are pawns for the real forces."

"And what real force controls me?" Jass asked.

"Passion."

"I did not come here to have my countrypeople's lives and liberties belittled by some Tudor bitch."

"Really?" Queen Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. "Okay. Tell me why you're here."

Jass move one hand to her chest, fingering the hilt hidden between her breasts. No. She wasn't here for revenge. She wasn't here for spectacle. She wasn't here for passion—she had passion aplenty, but she also had reason. She believed in something. Something worth fighting for, worth groveling for.

"I am here, as I said, for freedom."

"You walk into hell with no plan other than to express your cause?"

Jass stood. "Hell was your word, Elizabeth." She drew a knife. "Walked? I pierced your defenses." She stepped closer to the Queen of England. "I can go anywhere and do anything for my convictions." She held the knife to the Queen's throat.

Through all this, her foe remained unphased.

"Do it, then."

Jass shook her head and withdrew. The scene was warping. There were dogs nearby, and the clacking of something mechanical. "I will do what I need to do, but killing you isn't what I need to do. I think I just wanted to face you, once, before I leave this world to seek the miracle I need to save my people."

"Poetic," said Queen Elizabeth, "and foolish. Miracles? Another manifestation of your passion-clouded judgment."

Jass frowned. "You seem strangely interested in my passion, Elizabeth."

"My handlers are more deadening, Gráinne."

The queen's weariness was apparent. Had ruling the world for half a century exhausted her so? Were there other factors? Jass felt a pang of empathy despite herself, a connection with another woman who had weathered the world of men and risen to the top.

Queen Elizabeth toyed with her collar.

Heat blossomed in Jass's chest. Was it her hatred that lent spice to the Queen of England's flirtation? She groaned as she rolled on the floor. She was in agony, her ribs a mess—no, she was standing tall over her presumed empress, her red mane catching light from the fire. She was in her sixties but she was still in her prime. She clenched her fists.

"You know my demands," she said. "Free my sons and remove your bandit from my lands."

"What is in it for England?" asked the queen.

"I will stop supporting the insurrections."

Queen Elizabeth chuckled. "The insurrections will continue. As will my empire. Your demands and your offer only serve to highlight our lack of control in these matters."

Jass trembled with anger, in pain.

Where was she? There were all these voices, but all she could see was Queen Elizabeth. Her vision became blurry. She would do anything to save her sons, though she had no sons. She would do anything to free her lands, though she was a penniless college student. Was this a dream, she wondered, a vivid dream? She'd had dreams before, dreams that she could discern as such. She searched her wrist for her watch.

Looking back at her, reflected in the wide silver bangle she found, was Lancer.

"I will do anything to free you," the reflection said.

Jass glanced back at Queen Elizabeth. The old woman was drawing up her skirts suggestively.

There was a commotion. People were yelling, they were screaming. They were silent.

"Hold still!" Jass felt herself yelling in Lancer's voice.

Metal scraped against metal, and the little Greenwich drawing room slid out of existence.

 

# # #

 

A dozen police officers lay dead on the floor of the precinct, bleeding from gashes in their necks and torsos. Here and there a few limbs were strewn. Jass's cellmate, an older white woman with thinning hair, cowered in the corner, muttering. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder.

Lancer stood tall, glorious, her hair and clothes immaculate. The cell door was open.

Jass looked up at her Servant from her prone position. She'd never been in so much pain in her life. The pirate queen looked back with hints of a hesitant smile in her eyes.

"I was you," murmured Jass.

"You connected with my memories," said Lancer. Her expression soured. "My lowest point. Groveling in front of that bitch."

"You didn't grovel," said Jass.

"I let her fuck me."

Jass felt like an idiot. Her face burned. She was in too much pain to stand, to comfort Lancer. And even if she could embrace the pirate queen, she wasn't sure she would. Where did they stand? She'd just dismissed her in anger—how much time had passed?

"Whatever," said Lancer, her voice saying the opposite.

She entered the cell and knelt to scoop Jass's broken body into her arms. Jass shrieked. "You're in horrible shape. The cops didn't take you to a hospital?"

Jass's mind went to all the injustices perpetrated by cops, to all the unarmed people killed directly or indirectly by the police. The fathers and sons gunned down at traffic stops. The life choked out of Eric Garner over a couple cigarettes. The women left to die of disease in jail. The terrified children in Trump's concentration camps.

Despite all her rage, she couldn't blame the cops for how she'd been treated. Of course they didn't bring her to a hospital. She'd announced the reality of magic to all of Manhattan. She was surprised, in fact, that the worst they had done with her was dump her in this holding cell.

"I think this might be it for me," she mused, wondering where the words were coming from. Her pain was fading, and so was Lancer's beauty. The pirate queen's arms were strong. Jass felt peaceful.

"No!"

Lancer's vehemence shocked Jass. She returned to her senses, to her sensation, to the agony.

"I'm the one who needs to go, lass," said Lancer. Was she crying? "I promised you I'd fill the grail for your wish. Hang in there, Jass, _please God_ let her hang in there _._ "

_I'll try._

Jass knew if she spoke, she'd choke.

Lancer was crude, and flippant, and was always looking for shortcuts. And she'd killed Rey.

But in this moment, Jass felt nothing but love for her loyal Servant.

All the sacrifices were for this, for the moment she could enact her own wish through the Grail. And Jass wasn't the only one making sacrifices. She'd lost Rey, and Anatoli, and Bobsom. But Lancer had lost her family, her entire country. And instead of struggling for last place, instead of fighting Saber for the right to make her own wish on the Grail, Lancer had stepped aside for the sake of the alliance. She had put Saber's wish before hers, given up on everything in order to help realize Jass's dream.

Jass felt tears brimming in her eyes as Lancer swept her out of the police station.

They moved at great speed, Lancer talking the entire time.

"I went to Bren, like you asked. She was furious, and sad, and frustrated that I could not explain what had happened. As I began to launch into an explanation of the Holy Grail, I felt you touch my memories.

"I knew you had given me an order, but I also knew I had to find you. I saw your dream. I felt the boot, the handcuffs, the bars. Your broken bones. We share a deep bond, Jass, and not only because you are my Master. We are connected in this world because I love you.

"I was delayed in reaching you by a young woman named El."

Lancer skidded to a halt at the intersection of Greene and Waverly. Jass looked up. She could see Jerry's office window from here.

"She said a lot of interesting things," Lancer continued, "but it might be best if you heard them from her yourself."

Still cradling Jass, she entered the building and climbed to the fourth floor.

Jerry's office door was open.

"The mana's getting out!" Jass said, out of reflex.

"That's part of the idea, apparently."

Lancer carried her in and laid her on Jerry's desk. Saber and El were already there.

"Is this it?" Jass asked. "Is Archer gone?"

"No." Saber's normally serene face was replaced with an uncharacteristic grimace.

"What's going on?"

No one answered. El stepped up to the desk and placed a hand over Jass's ribs.

"Can you help her?" Lancer asked, breathlessly.

The room rang with the question, repeated by the hundreds of wraiths that inhabited the space. Jass glanced around. The eight folding chairs were collapsed, standing in one corner. The bookshelves had been emptied. The home away from home in which she'd spent as much time as possible over the past semester was gone.

"There's no time," El said finally.

Jass closed her eyes, not wanting to see her Servants' faces.

El continued. "Healing magecraft isn't my forte, and there's a couple processes going on that I just can't race. One, the city is still killing people to restore Archer's physical form. Two, my agent inside the labyrinth won't maintain her current levels of mana for long. We need to end things _now_."

"So why are we here instead of out there killing Archer and Caster?"

"Caster is dead," said El. "That leaves Archer, and—"

"His Master is the city," Saber said softly. "Its magic circuits are the leylines. The subway. He has almost died twice now, but the city simply heals him by drawing on its circuits."

"Can't we just hurt him until the city—" Jass stopped herself. "Wait. The subway?"

"The subway," confirmed Saber.

"Times Square?"

"Yeah."

"And again, today?"

"Yeah."

"So every time we hurt him, the city just kills a few thousand people to heal him?"

"That is what El says, and it tracks."

"So how do we end things?"

"We convince him to break his current contract and join you," said Lancer, her tone flat.

"And how do we do that?"

The unmistakable hum of a Servant materializing weaponry spread throughout the room, followed by the swish of moving cloth and the creak of leather. Jass opened her eyes. Lancer and Saber stood above her, the blade of his sword pushing into her neck, the barrel of her pistol in his mouth.

"What the fuck?!"

"We guarantee Archer his wish," said El simply. "The moment he accepts the contract with you, Lancer and Saber die, you win the Grail War, and both you and Archer get your wishes."

Jass's mind went blank.

"It's okay, Jass," said Lancer, sensing her Master's torment. "It's okay. It's okay."

Saber nodded slightly, as much as he could with Lancer's gun in his mouth.

 _This is the way,_ he communicated to Jass. _This is the only way._

"Call out to him now," suggested El. "Offer him a contract."

Jass wept, even as the contractions in her torso shot pain throughout her being. Lancer had given everything for Jass's wish, and now Saber was stepping aside as well. And neither was going to go down in glorious combat, as befits a heroic spirit. This was a suicide pact. Simple, pragmatic, and awful.

_Is this your idea, Lancer?_

_No, Master. El is a Counter Guardian—an agent of the world itself, a preserver of the human species. The world always acts along the most direct pathways. She has a head for planning, that one. It's a clean solution._

_I don't like it!_

_I haven't liked many things myself, lass. Maybe there will be more to like in the world you build with the Grail._

"Chop chop," said El.

"Sorry," said Jass. "I'll… I'll do it. Just give me a moment."

"We don't have any moments," warned El.

 _I'm not one to stand for ceremony,_ Lancer told Jass telepathically. _Let's get this over with._

Saber nodded again.

Jass wiped her eyes.

"Grace—no, Gráinne. I love you too. I forgive you, and I thank you. And David. You were so patient with me. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart."

"Heal her when this is over," Lancer said to El. "Or I'll be torturing you for an eternity in the Throne of Heroes."

El nodded, and Jass nodded.

She felt her magic circuits tingle.

"Archer," she said simply. "If you answer the Grail's summons and abide by its laws, I hereby propose." It felt as if the words were rushing back to her, and she lost herself in them, closing her eyes. She couldn't watch another person she loved die. "Your Will shall be mine, and I shall be your sword. I hereby swear that I shall be all that is good in this world, and that I shall unmake all that is evil. If you have a wish upon the Holy Grail, step forth and take my hand, Ascendant!"

Another presence flared up in the room. Jass felt it even with her eyes closed.

"Are you my Master?" came a gentle voice.

Jass hesitated.

There was no good answer.

"Now, Jass," said El.

Jass took a deep breath.

There had been two answers to this question the first time she'd been asked. When it was Saber standing over her in this same room. Before Bobsom had died. Now there was only one answer.

"Yes."

A muffled shot went off at the same time as Goliath's sword entered flesh with a squelching sound.

Jass winced as she felt her Servants' spiritual signatures receding. In their place, a single weaker bond remained. She opened her eyes as the last sparks of Lancer and Saber scattered and dissolved into thin air. Robin Hood beamed down at her.

"We win!" he exulted.

Jass didn't feel like she'd won anything.

"Where's the Grail?" she asked.

"I have it here," said El, producing an off-white coffee mug with some indistinct red lettering.

Jass could feel the enormous amount of mana washing off the object.

"So do we just, like, how does this work?" Jass asked. "We just look at it and state our wishes, or…?"

Archer rubbed his hands together in excitement.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," said El.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I'M SORRY!!!
> 
> I'm sorry for offing Lancer and Saber so ignominiously. 
> 
> I'm also sorry for the long delay between chapters. I've been having a hard time doing things. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Things are rushing toward a bittersweet finale, but I have a few more twists to present.
> 
> Next chapter will be the final full chapter. I may do an epilogue after that.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, and I look forward to your thoughts in the comments!


	37. 22 - The Rubber Band Snaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A job well done, and nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks: the final full chapter.
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me thus far. I will hopefully post the epilogue and my final author's notes in about a week.

Jass didn't feel anything as El stuck her hand into Archer's chest and squeezed. The final Servant in the Grail War died with confusion etched into his face. Jass was aware of her bond with him dissolving, but this wasn't accompanied by any kind of sensation. It was just information, information she had no idea what to do with. Her pain was fading again, too. Maybe she was dying. She could hardly make herself care one way or the other. She missed Lancer.

She considered asking El what her plan was, but she couldn't be bothered.

"There we go," the pale woman said once the last of Archer's essence had faded. "Messy, but it's done. Stay with me, Jass. You're the winner. The Grail answers to you, now."

Jass didn't respond. What about Archer's wish?

El closed her eyes, then began reciting information as a rapid rate. "This was a subcategory Holy Grail War, based on the Greater Grail system of Fuyuki City. When Lord El-Melloi II of the Clocktower destroyed the latter and released its blueprints, Father Hubert Manweal and others from the Mage Association's Thule Society conspired to recreate the system using Jerry Cormic's mana bloom experiments. They largely succeeded, preserving most aspects of the original system.

"All seven Servants' mana must return to the Grail in order to activate it and enable its wish-granting protocols. None of them can know this for the war to function. No Servant can receive a wish. It is always just the last surviving Master. You."

El's exposition washed over Jass.

She tried to stay focused.

"So I get to make my wish?" If that was true, she couldn't squander the opportunity. This was the moment of triumph. She had to make her wish, to give meaning to all the suffering, all the sacrifice. To avenge the dead in the subway, to honor her friends and lovers.

"You get to make _a_ wish," El said firmly. "But you cannot make the wish you wanted to make."

"How do you even know my wish?"

"I can see your investments, interests, and patterns of significance, traced in the mana that suffuses you. I'm sorry, Jass, but you can't make a socialist world with this Grail."

"Watch me." She took a deep breath. How many did she have left?

"No, Jass. Listen to me."

"I'm dying. Even if I trusted you, I don't have time to waver."

"It won't work!" El cried.

"Are you one of _those_?" Jass asked, feeling the sneer form on her lips. "You think we can't do better? You're wrong, and anyway, this is a miracle."

"No, that's just the thing. Fuck, Jass, I'm on your side. I want it too! But the miracle. Won't. Work."

Jass felt that, the slap in the face.

"What do you mean it won't work."

El sighed. "The Greater Grail system Hubert and friends built isn't in this world," she said. "The vessel is here, but all the pathways are tied into Jerry's labyrinth, Jass. The space in which Hubert found me, the space he used to save you from Rider."

_Jerry's labyrinth?_

Jass remembered Saber's musings. That she and her friends were under the effects of something. Something that also touched Hubert, and the orchids. What had Saber said? _I can only hope awareness of this force helps prevent it from dominating you._

"I should just try anyway."

"It will not work."

"I have to do _something_ , El!" Jass, still prone on her back, choked on saliva and coughed several times. "My friends… New York City… the billions, the hungry—"

"It will not work."

Jass looked at the mug in El's hands and opened her mouth.

"Your wish will create a socialist utopia inside the labyrinth," El said. "You'll give economic democracy to some two hundred wraiths. You won't touch our world. You won't fix anything."

Jass closed her eyes. She focused on the mug, though in her mind's eye it looked more like a giant golden goblet. El was saying no, but what was the alternative? Her image of the grail shimmered, flickered.

El kept talking. "Unchecked, the labyrinth will slowly swallow more and more of the world, starting with the people you love. Your family, your classmates. Everyone your friends talk to. Everyone my friends talk to. It'll spread, a disease in the fabric of this world. Eventually the world's immune system will activate, Jass, and that won't be pretty. The extermination of the human race is on the table."

"You're a real bummer, El." Jass tried to concentrate on the grail, but it was a struggle.

"I have a solution."

"You should have led with that."

"I'm doing my best here. Listen, I have someone in the labyrinth who can keep Jerry contained, mitigate the space's growth. If you want to help me save the most people, Jass, you can wish to retrieve the souls stuck in the labyrinth."

"The souls?"

El put a hand on Jass's forehead. Jass saw figures from her daydreams, Mel, Brian, Trevor, the cat Fishsticks. She saw another version of El, several versions of Jerry. She saw herself. She saw Bobsom.

_I'm really dying._

_No,_ came El's voice directly in Jass's head. _This would save you, too._

_How?_

_You're fragile because your soul is entangled. If you make the right wish, and we get you to a hospital, you'll be okay._

Jass didn't want to die. But what about her wish—Anatoli's wish? "Why should I believe you?"

El shook her head. "I don't have time to convince you. You have to decide whether I'm more trustworthy than Jerry and Hubert. It's up to you, Jass. I did what I could, but the fate of humanity is in your hands."

Jass opened her eyes and stared at the mug.

El was right. She had to make a decision between her wish and El's.

Her wish: based on information fed her by Saber, Jerry, and Hubert, all of whom had been wrong about fundamental details of the Grail War.

El's: based on information fed her by a shady stranger with mind-reading powers.

"Can I wish for more wishes?" she asked with a weak laugh.

"Many magi have wanted to try," El said. "None of them had the opportunity. I honestly don't know what would happen."

Jass raised an arm. She still had two of Saber's Command Seals on the back of her hand. El handed her the mug.

"Do the right thing," El urged.

Jass nodded.

 

#

 

Dalthera Garleyel looked around the hedge maze in wonder as the wraiths began disappearing, one by one.

The minotaur faced her, grunting and brandishing its axe.

"No more time to faff about," she said, psyching herself up. She brimmed with energy, more mana than she'd ever handled before. She was a live wire. She'd never been more ready to do magecraft than in the moment immediately before the minotaur charged.

All Dalthera needed to do was trap the minotaur long enough for the labyrinth to wither. With no more outward connections, it would become an isolated mana system, and entropy would quickly end it.

The minotaur bowled into her, pinned her to the floor, and raised its axe.

" _Isaz_."

The ground was cold, white, dry. She'd never invited anyone into her isolation before, but there they were, alone in the ice. She gazed up at the dark, dimensionless sky, looking over the minotaur's shoulder as it grunted in alarm.

The minotaur stood, spun around, threw its axe into the distance. It clattered harmlessly off an invisible wall. Usually Dalthera felt strain in the walls of her Reality Marble, the world's mana seeking to overwhelm the bug she'd introduced. Not here. It was as El had said: she wasn't in the world anymore.

The minotaur retrieved its axe and slammed itself against the walls again and again, howling, seeking escape.

Finally, it spun to face Dalthera.

Dalthera sighed. She had fulfilled her mission. She had saved the world. She was ready.

She poured the rest of her borrowed mana into her Reality Marble. It would outlive her.

The minotaur stomped over and sank its axe into her neck.

 

#

 

Later, Onson Sweemey would have a story for what happened to him on November 30th, 2017. He would say that it was like a rubber band releasing its tension. He would say that he could feel it, even hear it. He would go on to have a very clear narrative: that he and Raul and Karli were glued to the TV, watching news about the wreckage near City Hall, waiting with bated breath for any kind of communication: text, call, a knock on the door.

The minutes had turned into an hour, and then two. One of the terrorists had been captured; the others had disappeared.

"Terrorists."

Onson could feel it, somehow: it was Jass who had been captured. She had fought someone, and she'd gotten herself arrested. She was just around the corner, in a jail cell. They were connected even now, by whatever that thing Saber had been talking about was. She was in pain, in shock, dreaming.

Raul and Karli could feel it, too. They huddled together on his couch, seeking warmth and comfort in each other's arms.

Finally Jass was freed.

It happened minutes later. Onson would go on to say he knew what it was the instant it happened, but the truth is he didn't. Something imperceptible shifted in him, and he drew back from the other two. The silent comfort they had shared moments earlier was gone.

Onson realized he hadn't offered his guests any food or drink. They would judge him so hard for being a bad host. After they'd come all this way, for—for… for what?

He had to do something, say something.

But he couldn't think of anything. Total mind blank.

 _Fuck_ , he thought. _Why am I always so awkward around strangers?_

"My roommate is dead," the boy murmured, eyes wide.

"What the fuck?" asked the girl.

Onson's guests, facial expressions a complex tapestry of befuddlement and fear, excused themselves and scurried out the door. Onson slowly covered his face with his hands, gripping the skin of his cheeks and scalp tightly as he suppressed a shriek.

It was 1:43 p.m. on a Saturday when Onson Sweemey's soul was restored.

 

#

 

El, senses overloaded by the flash of mana from the Holy Grail, didn't feel the labyrinth crumbling. But when the light receded, she knew the job was done. She still saw the swirls of mana—Jass's, her own, that of the important objects in the room—but all the distant connections were gone. There was no more national network of Jerry's victims.

She looked down at Jass. The college student's eyes were shut tight and she was panting.

El smiled.

"Good job, Jass."

She felt inordinate pride for this kid, for this idealist who listened and made a hard decision when she needed to. They were no longer magically bound to each other, but she still felt a camaraderie with Jass. She recognized, on a mundane level, that Jass had been subjected to the same Jerry she had. No, not the same: a more sophisticated Jerry. A Jerry who had learned much more about magecraft through and after his imprisonment in London.

El stroked Jass's hair.

"We'll get you some help now," she said.

She reached into her pocket for her cell phone, but before she could touch the device she was overcome with a sudden and intense vertigo. Clutching the edge of Jerry's desk as her knees buckled, she closed her eyes and tried not to hurl.

After a moment, El realized that the sensation filling her wasn't her equilibrioception misfiring.

It was something intense and ancient. Something nonverbal, but something with meaning.

_The job was done._

The room spun.

"No!" she cried. She had to help Jass, her kindred spirit, the good girl who'd listened and done the right thing.

Her protestations were weak in the face of an entity millennia old.

Its presence squeezed her body from all directions as she struggled to remain at Jass's side. She'd formed a contract with it, a covenant. She wasn't Elizabeth Friedman anymore, it reminded her. She was El, the Counter Guardian. Just one implement in Alaya's toolbox.

El felt her face moisten, her tears splattering against her cheeks as the world tightened its grip.

She understood that this is what she had signed up for.

A life of flitting from one battlefield to the next, doing what needed to be done to preserve the human species from extinction. This battlefield was cleared. Next.

"Sorry," she gasped, forcing the word through the pressure on her throat, and then she let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last couple chapters have had some pacing issues. The truth is that I wanted to get this 'draft' completed. I intend to go back and do some serious work on the story at some point: more properly foreshadowing the importance of the key players, for one, and streamlining/completing the "In the Labyrinth" segments for another.
> 
> I will have more to say when I post the epilogue, including giving my thanks to a number of folks who were crucial in the completion of this narrative.
> 
> For now, though, I will only say this: see you again soon!


	38. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war was over.
> 
> The wish was made.
> 
> But this isn't the end, because there are no real endings in life. There are just survivors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a shorty with slightly different perspective and tone. Wrapping some things up and unwrapping others.
> 
> C/W implication of Waver Velvet's genitalia, and also, like, brief and inadequate portrayals of characters struggling with PTSD.

December arrived before anyone had even started discussing how to pay for the repairs.

The month would be remembered as a blur.

No one ever claimed credit for the attacks sustained in the heart of global finance. Some politicians clamored for retributive war. They blamed radical Islam, they blamed Iran. But there was no evidence, and there was no will, and there was no war. The left breathed a sigh of relief. It was bad at stopping wars.

A couple copycat killers tailed the Wall Street Murders. Proud billionaire Nick Hanauer took the opportunity to repeat his call from 2014, reminding his fellow plutocrats that the gross income inequality in America was only going to fuel more "poor on wealthy hate crime." He got more traction this time, but even that brief ideological concession was quickly forgotten.

The copycats were all caught, and determined to be such. The original string of deaths—thirty-seven over two nights, including, to the surprise of many, the CEO of Vodafone, on a random visit to New York—was never solved. Several FBI officials ate crow. Some were even forced to resign as the wild goose chase for Jass Bonzalez dragged on into 2018 with nothing to show.

The funerals and memorial services seemed endless in the moment, but as quickly as they had started they were over. People wanted to forget. The city posted some emergency bonds and it began rebuilding.

The internet wasn't so kind.

Buzzfeed Unsolved did a special episode on the destruction of Times Square, and another on whether or not the vanished Bonzalez was an alien. Reddit and Tumblr exploded with conspiracy theories about the events of the Holy Grail War.

None of this improved Onson's spirits.

He couldn't read the news. He couldn't focus on his studies. He stopped going outside. Everything about his day to day life reminded him of the violation wrought by Jerry. The cafes, lounges, libraries, and offices: all places he'd kissed people he didn't know. He'd opened his heart to classmates whose names he could barely conjure up. Just opening a textbook reminded him of the dead girl he'd almost taken advantage of. And it was fucking impossible to get regular therapy on his student health insurance—especially not with the psychological toll the explosions had taken on all of New York. Waiting lists were months long. He wanted to go home.

Amidst all the torment, though, Onson was sure of one thing: his interests lay with those of the working class.

He had never been so sure of anything in his life.

He wasn't entirely sure _why_ he was so sure. Was it something he had read, or something he'd been told long ago? He couldn't say, but he felt it was real, and he knew he would carry this belief to the grave. He understood the fundamental necessity of unemployment, the incessant theft of workers' surplus value. He recognized elitism everywhere, and stood in solidarity with his fellow wage slaves and debt peons around the world. He knew that his understanding of class was tied into big issues: food security, climate crisis, extinction events.

Despite his paralysis and trauma, he knew he needed to do _something_. He sent an email.

One email became two, and then four, and then dozens, and then spring broke, and the city rose from its nightmare.

Onson shrugged off his malaise long enough to attend a meeting.

 

#

 

5 years later

London

 

Jass Bonzalez smiled to herself as she read the news on her iPad. The Orchid Caucus had finally won a majority on the national political committee of the Democratic Socialists of America. It hadn't been quick work, but it had been principled, with calm analysis and nuanced interventions. She hadn't done any of it herself, watching from afar, but she swelled with pride nonetheless.

"What's got you so chuffed?"

She looked up to see her mentor and lover smiling back at her. His hair was up in a long, straight ponytail. He was dressed in his Admirable Great Tactics t-shirt and nothing else.

"Your department's going to have fun integrating this one into its theories about the Grail, babe." She handed him the device and lay back on the bed. "I'm sure of it now. Both of my wishes came true."

As Jass had lain dying on Jerry's desk five years earlier, Grail in hand, El had told her to do the right thing.

 _Do the right thing._ Intentional or no, El's words had reminded her to put science back before ideals. She hadn't wished for socialism, an abstract and poorly-defined utopia. Instead she had wished for ubiquitous, unwavering class consciousness.

Of course, it had only affected those trapped in Jerry's labyrinth, but it had affected them deeply. Souls freed, her former fellow inmates had gone on to become the best anti-capitalist fighters in decades. It had taken time, but they had wrested the reins away from the reformists.

Waver Velvet, Lord El-Melloi II, sighed as he placed the iPad down on the nightstand.

"You know I'm no good at politics," he complained.

He had finally come into his own as a dignified professor at the Clock Tower, but in private, his whiney, sore loser's attitude still surfaced from time to time. It was one of the things Jass found endearing about Waver, a hint of lingering youth. Without it, without this indulgent fallibility, he would be too much like Jerry.

She pulled him closer, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

"Silly boy." She put her lips to Waver's ear. "Are you going to abandon that arena to your enemies? They _love_ politics."

"What enemies now?" he asked, feigning concern.

"Oh, you haven't heard?" Jass sat up and put her glasses back on. "Waters is at it again. The Thule Society is moving to construct another Grail."

"Shit!" Waver's feigned concern metamorphosed into real agitation.

Jass knew the topic was a barb for him. He had had a chance to stop the Manhattan Grail War the day it started, but had chosen to let it run its ruinous course. Rescuing her at its conclusion hadn't done enough to ease his conscience.

"It's okay," she said, pulling Waver into a chaste hug. "You can attempt neutrality again."

Part of her hoped that they would succeed. That there would be another Holy Grail War.

She kept the old Irish dagger on her person at all times, just in case she felt the familiar sensation of Command Seals appearing on her body. It was more than the scrap of red fabric Waver had retained from the 4th Fuyuki Grail War. That relic was a dusty memento, an altar to Iskander.

The dagger wasn't a memento. It was a summoning catalyst she fully intended to use again someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised the ending wouldn't be pure tragedy, so here you go: Jass gets a moderate victory, and also she scores with Type/Moon's sixth most popular male character. Yes, their relationship is probably a little fucked up. You don't just walk away from Jerry Cormic a happy healthy human. Add to that the weird dynamics of magus society, and being presumed dead, and you have one hell of a domestic situation. 
> 
> I don't think I have more to say about the epilogue's contents right now, other than that perhaps more than in any other installment of this story, everything I've included is deeply intentional. I hope that it makes some modicum of sense to you, my darling readers. I know it may seem weird to produce Lord El-Melloi II again at this stage, but it's Important™. As always, your feedback is valued.
> 
> #
> 
> Aaaand that's all, folks. 78,000 words of my OC grail war.
> 
> Of course, there are no real endings, just survivors. I'd like to take a moment to appreciate some of those survivors.
> 
> The Final Doorman, first and foremost, for daring me to write this. Thank you!
> 
> Sunshine Duk, for being both the best and worst. Without their hopeless love of Fate, I never would have finished this story. But also, without their hopeless love of Fate, I would have spent far fewer hours of my life deep-diving obscure world lore. They were a great sounding board for my dumbass Servant ideas (especially Assassin and Rider) and also just like a fantastic friend. Thank you!
> 
> Luna_wolf, for hearing the word "fanfic" and insisting that we read each other's stories. If not for her intervention, this would be seven chapters languishing on my hard drive. I had no intention to share the story publicly. Her attitude about her own writing was inspirational, as was her writing itself. On top of this, she helped me with structure and characterizing Saber, and encouraged me to get smutty. Without her prodding, we wouldn't have that one mana transfer scene. You know the one. Thank you!
> 
> M.D., for reading my chapters quickly, demanding more, and generally being overwhelmingly positive about the entire endeavor. Never underestimate cheerleading. I know it took me too long to finish this up, and I left you without chapters too many weeks in a row, but you got me here. Thank you!
> 
> My partner, for laughing at my characters' names and telling me that they're proud of me for accomplishing this. Thank you!
> 
> And last but not least, everyone else who's reading this. You stuck it out. You put your faith in me and my wild story and you're still here. I didn't write an easy story, in my opinion. There's a lot of rough material in it. The entire tale takes place through the perspectives of villains and mourners. These are not pleasant perspectives. You may not understand this, but through the process of enduring this tale you have shared its burden with me. Thank you.
> 
> What's next for me?
> 
> Besides eventually giving this story a bit more edit/polish love:
> 
> \- I have another Fate fanfic I'm working on slowly about Gilgamesh trying to play therapist for Kirei during the 4th Grail War. I don't have particularly high hopes for it, but it may coalesce at some point.
> 
> \- I'm also writing various smutty shorts. All original works. You can look me up on Literotica if you want to see what I've done so far. My next WIP is over 12k words at this point and may grow to double that. It's about a demisexual boy who slowly falls in love with his exhibitionist flatmates. I'm pretty excited for it, and maybe you will be too. Stay tuned!
> 
> For now—at least for a month—NO MORE TYPE/MOON WIKI.
> 
> Peace out! 🦊


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